txhravy  of  t:he  CKeological  ^tmimry 

PRINCETON  .  NEW  JERSEY 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

ROBERT  ELLIOTT  SPEER 

JV  6455   .P2  1921 

Panunzio,  Constantine  Maria 

1884-1964. 
The  soul  of  an  immigrant 

e..         T-  t.  S. 


1 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/soulofimmigrantOOpanu 


THE  SOUL  OF  AN  IMMIGRANT 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  ■   BOSTON  ■  CHICAGO  •  DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •   BOMBAY  ■  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 


THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA.  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


OCl  24 


THE 

SOUL  OF  AN  IMMIGRANT 


BY  y 
CONSTANTINE  M.  PANUNZIO 

Author  of  "The  Deportation  Cases  of  1919-1920" 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1921 

All  rights  reserved 


PKINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


COPTBIGHT,  1921, 
Bv  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  printed.    PiiUlished  September,  1921. 


Press  of 
J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A, 


TO  ALL 


WHO  BY  COUNSEL  AND  GUIDANCE,  BY  ENCOUKAGEMEM'T 
OR     HINDRANCE,     HAVE     MADE     MY     FINAL  CHOICE 
POSSIBLE,    MY    AMERICAX    LITE    AK  EVER-UXFOLDING 
REALITY,  THIS  BOOK  IS  GRATEFULLY 

DEDICATED 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

English  poetry  has  materially  helped  the  author 
of  this  book  to  understand  the  genius  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  mind  and  character  and  of  the  soul  of 
America.  It  is  therefore  fitting  that  he  should,  and 
he  does  hereby,  make  acknowledgment  of  his  indebted- 
ness to  the  poets  quoted  in  this  book  and  to  the 
publishers  for  having  accorded  him  the  right  to  use 
copyrighted  material.  In  particular  to  The  Mac- 
millan  Company  for  the  citations  from  the  poetical 
works  of  Arnold,  Byron,  Cowper,  Vachel  Lindsay, 
Tagore,  Tennyson,  and  Wordsworth;  to  Messrs. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  and  to  Doctor  Henry  Van 
Dyke  for  the  quotations  from  "The  Poems  of  Henry 
Van  Dyke";  to  WUliam  Herbert  Carruth  for  the 
stanza  from  "Each  in  His  Own  Tongue" ;  to  the 
Ladies'  Home  Journal  and  to  C.  Austin  Miles  for  the 
music  to  Doctor  Van  Dyke's  "America  for  Me,"  and 
to  George  H.  Doran  Co.,  and  Christopher  Morley 
for  "The  Madonna  of  the  Curb";  to  Harcourt, 
Brace  &  Co.  and  Thomas  Daly  for  "Da  Little  Boy" ; 
to  B.  W.  Huebsch  and  Percy  MacKaye  for  the  lines 
from  "The  Immigrants" ;  to  the  John  Lane  Com- 
pany and  W.  J.  Dawson  for  the  selection  from 

vii 


viii 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


"America" ;  to  Little,  Brown  &  Co.  and  Denis  A. 
McCarthy  for  "The  Land  Where  Hate  Should 
Die";  to  Messrs.  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shephard  and 
Richard  Burton  for  the  quotation  from  "Lyrics 
of  Brotherhood";  to  Houghton  Mifl3in  &  Co.,  for  the 
hnes  from  Phoebe  Gary;  to  the  Nation,  to  Rainer 
Maria  Rilke,  and  to  Ludwig  Lewisohn  (translator) 
for  "Concerning  Great  Cities";  to  the  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Company  and  Alfred  Noyes  for  the  quotation 
from  "The  Avenue  of  the  Allies";  to  the  G.  Schirmer 
Music  Stores,  Los  Angeles,  for  the  citation  from 
Donizetti's  "Italia  Beloved,"  and  to  Messrs.  A.  P. 
Watt  &  Sons  and  Rudyard  Kipling  for  the  two 
stanzas  from  "The  Stranger." 


FOREWORD 

During  the  winter  of  1905-1906  I  was  attending 
a  preparatory  school  in  the  State  of  Maine.  One 
cold  night  a  schoolmate,  now  professor  in  a  Southern 
university,  came  into  my  room  and,  throwing  himself 
upon  my  bed,  somewhat  abruptly  asked  me  to  tell 
him  how  I  happened  to  come  to  the  United  States. 
I  have  no  way  of  knowing  what  put  the  idea  into  his 
mind;  it  may  have  been,  and  perhaps  it  was,  mere 
boyish  curiosity.  It  was  past  midnight  when  he  left 
the  room;  and  then  only  in  answer  to  the  uncanny 
cry  of  the  watchman:  "All  lights  out."  My  friend 
returned  to  my  room  repeatedly  after  that,  and, 
though  at  times  annoying  me,  managed,  little  by 
little,  to  wring  out  of  me  the  "round  unvarnish'd 
tale." 

Since  that  night  I  have  had  to  tell  the  story  hun- 
dreds of  times  to  audiences  varying  from  one  person 
to  hundreds  of  men  and  women,  and  from  Bath, 
Maine,  to  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah.  Naturally  the  tale 
has  grown  somewhat  longer  in  the  meantime  and  has 
acquired  many  more  twists.  Everywhere  it  has 
evoked  interest  and,  what  is  far  more  important, 

ix 


X 


FOKEWOKD 


has  awakened  sympathy  toward  the  "foreigner." 
After  a  time,  however,  it  became  both  embarrassing 
and  tedious  for  me  to  repeat  the  story,  and  I  sought 
a  way  of  avoiding  my  doing  so.  America's  entrance 
into  the  War  at  last  brought  me  relief  for  thereby 
I  was  able  to  break  all  engagements. 

With  the  close  of  the  War,  however,  and  with  the 
unprecedented  way  in  which  the  American  public  has 
turned  its  attention  to  the  all-important  question  of 
the  assimilation  of  the  immigrant,  it  became  increas- 
ingly clear  to  me  that  I  owed  it  to  my  adopted  coun- 
try to  give  the  story  to  the  public.  Scores  of  per- 
sons had  told  me  that  I  owed  this  as  a  matter  of 
duty;  but  I  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  primarily  be- 
cause it  is  so  personal  and  it  goes  so  deep  into  the 
very  recesses  of  my  being.  A  teacher-friend  at 
last  made  me  reahze  that  if  the  story  were  to  do 
any  good  it  need  to  go  out  at  this  time;  so  I  have 
given  it  to  the  pubhc. 

The  story  is  a  simple  one;  it  is  that  of  a  sailor 
lad  who  nineteen  years  ago  to-day  left  his  native 
country  and  through  a  series  of  strange  incidents 
came  to  the  United  States  and  through  another  series 
of  strange  circumstances  came  definitely  and  con- 
sciously to  adopt  America  as  his  country.  What 
happened  during  tliis  period;  how  he  found  his  way 
into  the  immigrant  community,  how  he  secured  his 
first  "job,"  how  he  was  ensnared  into  peonage,  how 
he  was  robbed  and  then  dragged  into  a  prison,  how 


FOREWORD 


xi 


he  was  led  into  unlawful  acts,  how  he  freed  himself 
from  the  grip  of  unscrupulous  peoples,  how  he 
struggled  to  secure  an  education,  to  get  naturalized 
and  to  fit  into  American  life;  these  and  many  other 
experiences,  typical  of  thousands  of  immigrants  in 
this  country,  are  told  frankly  and  boldly. 

If  the  narrative  has  any  particular  value  it  grows 
out  of  the  fact  that  it  recounts  the  struggles  of  an 
average  immigrant.  It  is  not  the  life  story  of  a 
Jacob  Riis,  an  Andrew  Carnegie  or  an  Edward  Bok 
that  is  told  here,  but  that  of  an  immigrant  lad  who 
has  been  neither  too  successfid  nor  too  unsuccessful. 
The  stories  of  great  and  successful  immigrants  have 
led  some  Americans  to  say:  "See  what  great  people 
immigrants  are!  We  need  more  of  them";  while 
others,  equally  as  superficially,  have  said:  "If  these 
immigrants  have  been  able  to  make  such  a  mark  for 
themselves  in  our  world,  all  immigrants  could  do 
the  same  if  they  wanted  to."  Both  of  these  state- 
ments are  beautiful,  but  what  they  imply  is  not  true 
to  fact.  This  story  suggests — and  I  hope  in  a  con- 
structive manner — what  helps  or  hinders  the  many 
in  or  from  becoming  useful  American  citizens. 

Again,  this  tale  depicts  the  inner,  the  soul 
struggles  of  the  immigrant  more  than  his  outward 
success  or  failure.  It  tells  of  the  agonies  and  the 
Calvaries,  of  the  bitter  sorrows  and  the  high  joys 
of  an  immigrant  soul;  it  traces  the  liberation  of  a 
mind  from  the  conceptions  it  brought  from  the  Old 


xii 


rOEE  WOED 


World  and  pictures  its  development  into  the  Ameri- 
can consciousness.  Not  outward  poverty,  degrada- 
tion, misery;  but  inner  conflict,  soul-struggles  are 
here  primarily  depicted. 

Moreover,  this  is  the  story  of  an  Italian  hoy. 
Several  immigrant  autobiographies  have  been  writ- 
ten in  the  last  twenty-five  years,  but  I  know  of  only 
two  that  are  by  men  of  Italian  birth.  We  Italians 
by  birth  are  so  proud  of  our  native  land  that,  even 
though  we  become  fully  Americans  at  heart  we  may 
hesitate  to  publish  the  fact  broadcast.  I  too  have 
had  to  face  this  conflict,  but  my  gratitude  to  Amer- 
ica has  led  me  frankly  to  indicate  the  benefits  I  have 
derived  from  residence  in  the  United  States. 

Then  also,  this  is  the  autobiography  of  a  South- 
Italian.  Regarding  the  South-Italian  many  un- 
pleasant things  are  being  hinted  at,  if  not  openly 
expressed,  in  these  days.  This  story  shows  that  even 
a  southern  Italian  can  make  something  of  himself 
under  the  inspiring  influence  of  America,  when  he 
has  the  proper  opportunity  and  is  thrown  in  the 
right  environment. 

These  are  the  reasons  why  I  have  written  this 
book.  It  has  been  far  from  easy  for  me  to  do  so. 
It  goes  so  deeply  into  the  very  recesses  of  my  con- 
sciousness, it  recounts  so  many  unpleasant  and 
humiliating  experiences,  that,  frankly,  I  should  have 
preferred  not  to  have  written  it  at  all,  or  to  have 
permitted  it  to  appear  in  the  cold  blackness  of 


FOREWORD 


XIU 


print.  But  I  have  done  both  as  an  offering  to  my 
adopted  country.  I  have  told  the  story  frankly, 
fully;  sometimes  I  think  too  frankly,  too  fully.  If 
that  be  considered  a  fault,  let  it  be  laid  against  my 
desire  to  be  of  greatest  possible  service  to  my  coun- 
try, America,  regardless  of  the  way  it  may  affect 
me  personally. 

Some  of  the  chapters  I  have  left  pretty  much  in 
the  form  in  which  my  original  notes  were,  notes 
made  at  the  time  of  the  events  narrated;  I  have 
done  this  in  order  that  I  might  give  a  truer  pic- 
ture of  the  struggle  in  point  and  not  mar  the  original 
impression  by  throwing  upon  it  the  light  of  later 
knowledge  or  development.  I  am  aware  that  the 
language  is  not  always  in  the  form  in  which  it  should 
be.  In  this  as  in  other  respects  I  could  be  my  own 
most  scathing  critic.  I  ask  the  indulgence  of  the 
reader,  however.  For  after  all  my  only  desire  is 
that  this  little  book  may  help  Americans  to  under- 
stand, a  little  more  fully  perhaps,  what  fire  the  im- 
migrant passes  through  as  he  lifts  his  face  toward 
the  real  America. 

I  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  a  number  of  persons 
who  from  time  to  time  have  counselled  me  in  regard 
to  this  book.  I  here  express  my  thanks  to  them  all ; 
particularly  to  Professor  Robert  E.  Park  of  the 
University  of  Chicago  and  to  Miss  Mabel  A.  Brown 
of  Remsen,  N.  Y.,  who  examined  this  book  in  its  pre- 
liminary form  and  made  valuable  suggestions.  I 


xiv 


FOEEWORD 


wish  to  mention  especially  Bishop  and  Mrs.  Fred  B. 
Fisher,  of  Calcutta,  India,  who  not  only  have  been  of 
greatest  help  in  connection  with  this  work,  but  who 
also  through  the  undying  loyalty  of  years  have  been 
of  greatest  inspiration  to  me;  also  Mr.  Theodore  A. 
Hildreth  of  White  Plains,  New  York  and  Miss  Lenore 
M.  Ryan  of  Berkeley,  California,  who  in  a  like  man- 
ner have  been  a  profound  spiritual  influence. 


White  Plains,  N.  Y. 
May  3,  1921. 


C.  M.  Panunzio. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE) 

I.    A  Native  of  Ancient  Apulia   3 

II.    The  Call  of  the  Sea   33 

III.  America    53 

IV.  In  the  American  Storm   69 

V.    I  Go  TO  Jail   103 

VI.    I  AM  Caught  Again   121 

VII.    A  Mysterious  Event   133 

VIII.  First  Glimpses  of  the  Real  America      .    .    .  139 

IX.  "My  Boy,  You  Ought  to  Go  to  School"    .    .  149 

X.  My  American  Education  and  Its  Meaning    .  159 
XI.    I  Suffer  Serious  Losses   183 

XII.    I  Become  Naturalized   193 

XIII.  Stumbling  Blocks  to  Assimilation    ....  203 

XIV.  My  American  "Big  Brother"   217 

XV.    In  an  Immigrant  Community   227 

XVI.  Still  More  Obstacles  to  Assimilation    .    .    .  247 

XVII.    I  Go  to  Jail  Once  More   259 

XVIII.  My  American  Philosophy  of  Life    ....  275 

XIX.    Home!   299 

XX.    The  Final  Choice   315 


A  NATIVE  OF  ANCIENT  APULIA 


Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea  beach. 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings. 

Come  welling  and  surging  in — 
Come  from  the  mystic  ocean 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

WUUam  Herbert  Carruth. 


THE  SOUL  OF  AN  IMMIGRANT 


CHAPTER  I 

A  NATIVE  OF  ANCIENT  APULIA 

IN  that  division  of  southern  Italy  known  to  the 
ancients  as  "Apulia,"  about  twenty  miles  north 
of  Brindisi,  the  Brindisium  of  Roman  days,  a 
quaint  old  city  slumbers  peacefully  beside  the  placid 
waters  of  the  blue  Adriatic.  It  bears  the  name  of 
"Molfetta."  To  what  age  this  little  city  goes  back 
no  one  can  tell.  It  is  evident,  however,  that  it  is 
very  old.  In  the  heart  of  it  the  remains  of  what 
was  once  a  walled  citadel  are  still  to  be  seen.  The 
massive  wall,  some  thirty  feet  high  and  three  feet 
thick,  with  its  old  gates  and  doors,  still  stands.  The 
queer,  narrow,  alley-like  streets,  with  overhanging 
arches  here  and  there ;  the  low,  flat-roofed  dwellings, 
with  their  outside  walls  standing  unceremoniously 
right  on  the  streets ;  the  little  public  squares,  which 
are  not  squares  at  all, — all  speak  of  the  age  of  the 
town.  The  Saracens  at  one  time  occupied  this  vil- 
lage, and  have  left  their  traces,  both  in  the  architec- 
tural form  of  the  town  and  in  the  blood  of  the  people. 

[3] 


4       THE    SOUL    OF   AX  IMMIGRANT 


Three  high  B3'zantine  towers  were  still  standing  at 
the  time  this  story  begins ;  two  of  them  still  rise,  like 
silent  sentinels  of  past  ages,  above  what  is  the  oldest 
Christian  church  in  the  town.  The  third  once  lifted 
its  liead  as  a  clock  tower  above  the  Great  Gate.  The 
citadel,  however,  goes  back  farther  than  the  Sara- 
cens, to  the  time  when  Roma  was  mistress  of  the 
world. 

An  interesting  legend  is  recounted  to  this  day 
by  the  inhabitants  of  Molfetta,  which  throws  some 
light  on  the  age  of  the  ancient  village.  When  Han- 
nibal was  ravaging  this  part  of  Italia  Antica,  so  the 
story  goes,  the  populace  became  greatly  alarmed  and 
fearing  an  attack,  were  driven  into  a  state  of  panic. 
The  Roman  centurion  in  command  of  Molfetta,  to 
calm  their  fears,  called  the  people  together  one  day 
in  the  public  square  to  address  them.  There  was 
in  the  little  town  a  very  large  man,  a  veritable  giant ; 
with  him  the  centurion  had  arranged  to  carry  out 
a  scheme  to  restore  their  courage.  As  the  people 
assembled,  the  giant  came  with  them.  The  centurion 
made  his  speech,  in  the  course  of  which  he  said : 

"Citizens  of  Molfetta,  have  no  fear  of  the  enemy ; 
we  are  strong  enough  to  defeat  him ;  in  fact  there 
is  one  man  in  this  very  assembly  who  alone  can  put 
the  enemy  to  flight." 

Just  then  he  beckoned  to  the  giant,  who  came 
forward.  "This  is  the  man,"  said  the  centurion, 
pointing  to  him. 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  5 

The  people,  the  legend  continues,  looked  at  each 
other  in  astonishment,  wondering  how  this  one  man 
could  defeat  the  army  of  the  mighty  Carthaginian. 
Obeying  the  orders  of  the  officer,  the  giant,  unarmed, 
strode  out  from  amid  the  crowd  and  made  his  way 
to  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  The  people  looked 
on  in  amazement.  Going  out  a  mile  or  two  from 
the  village,  the  giant  lay  by  the  roadside  awaiting 
the  approach  of  the  enemy.  When  he  saw  them 
coming,  so  the  story  narrates,  he  rolled  himself  in 
the  dust  of  the  roadway  and  began  to  utter  the  most 
unearthly  howls  and  screams.  When  the  commander 
of  the  invading  army,  marching  at  the  head  of  the 
column,  came  up  to  him,  he  stopped  his  horse  and 
asked  what  was  the  trouble.  The  giant  promptly 
answered,  with  cries  and  still  more  cries,  that  because 
he  was  the  smallest  man  in  the  town,  the  inhabitants 
had  driven  him  out  in  order  that  he  might  not  be  in 
their  way  when  the  fighting  should  take  place.  Need- 
less to  say  the  mighty  Carthaginian  army  was  at 
once  ordered  to  retreat  and  hastily  made  its  way 
from  the  outskirts  of  Molfetta. 

Around  the  ancient  citadel  about  which  this  and 
many  other  interesting  legends  are  woven,  lies  the 
modern  Molfetta,  known  as  "Molfetta  nuova,"  in 
contrast  to  "Molfetta  veccliia."  This  is  compara- 
tively a  modern  town,  as  modem  towns  go  in  south- 
ern Italy.  The  streets  are  wider,  the  houses  are 
more  pretentious,  built  in  the  Roman  style  with  their 


6 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGEANT 


"antria" — open  courts — in  the  center.  The  prin- 
cipal street  of  the  town,  known  as  the  "Corso,"  runs 
in  a  straight  line  north  and  south,  parallel  to  the 
coast  and  just  outside  of  the  ancient  wall.  Along 
this  street  are  all  the  principal  shops,  stores,  offices, 
cafes  and  clubs ;  farther  along  its  course  are  the 
few  monmnents  and  public  buildings  which  adorn 
the  town;  monuments  to  Victor  Emanuel,  Mazzini, 
Garibaldi,  Cavour;  the  Cathedral,  the  Municipal 
Theater,  the  pubUc  baths  and  the  Villa  Garibaldi, 
or  public  garden.  To  the  east  of  the  Corso  and 
north  of  the  old  wall,  lies  the  "porto"  or  harbor, 
almost  asleep  in  its  inactivity,  with  perhaps  a  round 
hundred  masts  of  coasting  schooners  and  fishing 
skiffs  raising  their  heads  above  the  tranquil  waters. 
In  the  outskirts  of  the  city  are  the  only  industrial 
establishments,  supported  by  the  population  of  some 
40,000  souls ;  a  soap  shop,  two  macaroni  factor- 
ies, and  an  electric  plant.  Farther  out  is  to  be  found 
the  cemetery,  in  some  ways  the  most  beautiful  place 
in  town,  with  its  scores  of  little  private  chapels, 
real  gems  of  architecture,  and  the  never-dying  pale 
glow  made  by  myriads  of  little  oil  lamps,  keeping 
their  eternal  vigil  over  the  souls  of  the  dead. 

The  country  surrounding  Molfetta  is  one  of 
varied  beauty.  The  main  highways,  some  of  which 
can  be  traced  back  to  ancient  times,  are  well  kept. 
Endless  rows  of  tall,  slender  trees  make  the  scene 
picturesque  and  beautiful.    The  whole  countryside 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT  APULIA 


7 


is  a  paradise  of  orchards  of  orange  and  lemon  trees, 
of  fig,  almond,  olive,  peach,  pistaccio,  walnut,  and 
others,  while  grape  vines  are  present  everywhere. 

The  life  of  the  people  is  very  simple.  The  climate, 
which  nine  months  of  the  year  is  very  mild,  gives 
them  a  leisurely  attitude  toward  life.  They  live  in 
comparative  poverty,  gaining  their  entire  Uvelihood 
from  the  products  of  the  soil.  They  are  overbur- 
dened with  taxes,  which  reach  down  to  the  least 
article  they  wear  or  consume.  But  even  in  their 
poverty  they  are  happy,  for  their  poverty  is  not 
placed  in  bold  contrast  with  enormous  riches  on 
every  side,  as  is  the  case  in  some  countries.  The 
town  is  seldom  visited  by  tourists  and  the  people 
live  in  a  little  world  all  to  themselves,  scarcely  ever 
troubling  their  minds  with  the  events  of  the  outside 
world  or  even  of  other  parts  of  Italy. 

Their  main  diversions  consist  in  the  various  social 
and  religious  festivals  of  the  calendar  year.  First 
comes  the  Carnival,  when  the  whole  population  in- 
dulges in  a  season  of  play  and  carousing,  moral  and 
immoral.  This  is  followed  by  Passion  Week,  with 
its  somber  night  processions,  culminating  in  the 
gladsome  celebration  of  Easter.  On  Corpus  Christi 
day  the  whole  city  is  one  panorama  of  flowers  and 
bright  colors.  Rich  and  poor  alike  hang  out  of 
their  windows  their  best  quilts  and  silk  spreads, 
covering  the  walls  of  the  streets  with  the  bright  hues. 
From  far  and  near  the  best  flowers  of  the  season 


8 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


are  brought  in  and  thrown  along  the  streets  on 
which  the  procession  passes.  San  Corrado,  the 
patron  saint  of  the  city,  has  liis  day  on  the  8th  of 
August.  The  streets  are  decorated  and  illumined 
profusely,  and  a  large  quantity  of  fii-eworks  are 
lighted  at  night.  On  September  20th  comes  the 
national  holiday  commemorating  the  independence 
of  Italy.  Orations,  illuminations  and  fireworks  are 
the  order  of  the  day.  Finally  comes  Christmas,  the 
one  festival  season  of  all  the  year  when  the  people 
are  truly  in  a  spirit  of  worship. 

Aside  from  these  feasts  and  celebrations,  the 
townspeople  have  little  of  a  social  character.  The 
town  maintains  a  municipal  theater  which  is  open 
for  two  or  three  months  in  the  winter.  In  the  sum- 
mer the  band  gives  concerts  in  the  Villa  Garibaldi. 
There  are  few,  if  any,  community  dances  or  func- 
tions, and  seldom  do  the  people  go  out  on  picnics 
or  social  functions  of  a  similar  character. 

It  was  in  this  city  and  in  tliis  environment  that  I 
first  saw  the  light  of  day.  The  family  of  my  father 
traces  its  history  back  to  the  twelfth  century  and  to 
a  French  monk.  It  is  said  that  this  monk  grew 
weary  of  the  warm  comforts  and  the  leisure  of 
monastic  life,  and  abandoned  the  monastery  for  the 
cold  realities  of  life.  He  married  and  established 
a  family  of  his  own  in  northern  Italy.  Later  his 
descendants  went  down  into  the  sunnier  clime  of 
southeastern  Italy,  where  they  have  lived  for  cen- 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  9 


turies.  Here  they  built  for  themselves  an  enviable 
record,  rising  to  the  ranks  of  petty  nobility  and 
giving  to  Italy  many  professional  men. 

I  was  born  and  lived  in  old  Molfetta  the  greater 
part  of  my  youth.  I  do  not  know  the  particular 
house  in  which  I  was  born,  but  one  thing  is  certain : 
there  was  great  rejoicing  in  the  home  of  my  parents 
on  the  day  of  my  birth.  Tliis  was  not  due  to  the 
fact  that  a  child  was  born,  but  rather  that  a  boy 
had  come  into  the  world. 

In  the  background  of  this  extraordinary  rejoicing 
was  this  story.  From  what  grandmother  told 
me  over  and  over  again  even  when  I  was  a  mere 
babe,  it  seems  that  my  paternal  grandfather  had 
been  a  man  of  unusual  character  and  personality. 
Don  Costantino,  as  he  was  known,  had  been  a  physi- 
cian by  profession,  and  as  was  often  the  case  in  that 
day,  he  had  also  practiced  law.  It  is  said  that  in 
both  capacities  he  had  rendered  great  service,  es- 
pecially to  the  poor.  What  seems  to  have  given 
him  a  special  place  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  of 
his  native  Molfetta  and  raised  him  to  the  realm  of 
a  household  god,  however,  was  his  ardent  patriotism. 
During  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  Italy, 
and  especially  southern  Italy,  was  in  the  iron  grip 
of  the  Bourbons,  the  worst  tyrants  of  the  time.  In 
the  early  revolutions  of  1848-1849,  when  the  foun- 
dations of  a  United  Italy  were  being  laid,  grand- 
father seems  to  have  been  the  moving  spirit  of  a 


10     THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

small  group  of  patriots,  who  had  banded  themselves 
together  in  a  secret  organization,  determined  to 
arouse  and  lead  the  people  of  Molfetta  and  the  sur- 
rounding villages  to  do  their  part  in  the  cause  of 
liberty.  Spies,  everjTvhere  the  worst  enemies  of 
progress,  were  as  thick  as  vermin.  They  soon  dis- 
covered tliis  small  band  of  patriots,  and  in  a  raid 
conducted  under  the  dark  cloak  of  night,  they  ar- 
rested Don  Costantino  and  fourteen  others  and 
without  trial  hastened  them  to  the  notorious  dungeon 
of  Montefusco,  near  Naples,  where  many  patriots 
had  found  death.  Grandfather,  being  the  leader, 
was  singled  out  and  forced  to  drink  a  cup  of  poison. 
When  he  realized  that  the  end  had  come  he  is  said 
to  have  uttered  these  as  his  last  words :  "My  poor 
children  and  my  country !"  His  co-conspirators 
who  had  been  seized  with  him  were  brought  in  to 
view  his  stiffened  body  and  were  told  that  they  too 
would  suffer  a  like  end,  unless  they  would  promise 
to  give  up  their  revolutionary  tendencies  and  become 
"orderly  and  honorable  citizens."  Then  they  were 
released. 

Grandfather's  widow  was  left  without  resources  to 
bring  up  a  family  of  six  children.  In  1870,  when 
Italy  was  at  last  free  and  had  become  a  united  and 
independent  kingdom,  grandmother  received  a  pen- 
sion, which  on  her  -death  passed  to  my  father,  and 
when  he  died  it  reverted  to  me.  Poor  as  I  have  been, 
I  have  never  collected  a  centime  of  it.    Thus  the 


A  NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  11 


irony  of  history  was  repeated  in  grandfather's  case: 
one  day  an  "estabUshed"  order  wounds,  outlaws  or 
slays,  on  the  morrow  another  equally  "established" 
order  extols  to  the  sky,  erects  monuments,  makes 
heroes  and  saints. 

The  connection  between  this  story  and  the  special 
rejoicing  over  the  event  of  my  birth  lay  in  this : — at 
last  the  family  had  a  boy  who  would  perpetuate  the 
name  of  its  ancestor-hero.  Two  boys  and  four  girls 
had  been  bom  previous  to  my  coming,  but  although 
all  the  girls  had  lived,  the  boys  had  both  died  and 
the  family  was  beginning  to  fear  that  the  name  of 
their  hero  would  not  be  perpetuated.  It  was,  then, 
purely  a  matter  of  ancestor  worship.  Accordingly, 
I  was  named  and  on  the  fifth  day  of  my  earthly 
journey  I  was  christened  "Costantino."  In  this 
manner  the  task  of  carrying  on  grandfather's  name 
and  reputation  was  placed  upon  my  slender  shoul- 
ders and  my  yet  unborn  consciousness. 

Grandmother  was  the  controlhng  factor  of  my 
early  life;  she  took  charge  of  my  bringing  up  even 
while  I  was  being  nursed.  She  immediately  set 
herself  the  task  of  making  a  second  grandfather  out 
of  me.  Evidently  she  was  not  to  be  satisfied  with 
my  bearing  his  name  only ;  I  was  to  be  his  exact  du- 
plicate !  To  that  end  she  began  to  tell  me  the  story 
of  her  martyred  husband's  life  and  death.  Even 
before  I  could  possibly  have  understood  what  she 
was  saying,  she  wove  that  story  into  my  infant 


12 


A   NATIVE   or    ANCIENT  APULIA 


consciousness  so  strongly  that  the  first  time  I  be- 
came conscious  of  my  existence  it  seemed  that  I  was 
not  I,  but  grandfather  re-born  in  me.  My  earliest 
memories  are  those  of  sitting  in  grandmother's  lap 
in  the  gentle  hour  of  twilight,  and  hearing  each  night 
the  bedtime  story  of  my  hero  grandfather.  She 
would  tlien  put  me  to  bed  and,  gently  kissing  me 
goodnight,  would  almost  invariably  say:  "Tu  devi 
divenire  un  grand'uomo,  come  il  tuo  nonno" — "You 
must  become  a  great  man,  like  your  grandfather." 

As  I  grew  older  dear  grandmother  went  still 
further;  she  worked  out  a  plan  for  my  Ufe  to  the 
last  detail.  "First  a  priest,  then  a  teacher,  and 
at  last  a  patriotic  statesman,"  she  would  say. 
Then  she  proceeded  to  carry  out  the  plan.  She  even 
went  to  the  extent  of  choosing  a  baby  girl,  a  distant 
relative,  as  the  one  who  should  some  day  become 
my  wife.  Thus  while  I  was  barely  a  midget,  I  was 
betrothed. 

In  her  plans,  however,  my  grandmother  did  not 
take  into  consideration  the  great  laws  of  heredity, 
as  I  presume  many  grandmothers  do  not.  She  of 
course  was  not  to  blame;  in  her  day  not  much  was 
known  on  this  subject,  and  even  in  our  times  we  are 
just  beginning  to  unfathom  the  great  mystery.  But 
we  shaU  presently  see  that  some  other  being  than 
my  paternal  grandfather  presided  at  my  conception 
and,  at  least  in  my  youth,  directed  the  course  of 
my  life.    And  perhaps  it  was  due  to  the  conflict  be- 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  13 


tween  the  powers  of  heredity  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  plan  of  Hfe  as  worked  out  by  my  grandmother 
and  all  my  relatives,  on  the  other,  that  on  a  not  far- 
distant  day  I  was  to  find  myself  in  the  country 
beyond  the  setting  sun,  there  to  become  an  American. 

But  that  is  getting  a  bit  ahead  of  the  story.  We 
must  return  to  my  family  and  to  the  general  back- 
ground of  what  follows.  My  father  was  the  oldest 
of  the  six  children  left  for  grandmother  to  bring 
up.  Although  without  means,  in  keeping  with  the 
custom  of  the  time  regarding  the  education  of  the 
oldest  son,  she  managed  to  send  my  father  to  the 
University, — in  itself  an  extraordinary  feat  for  a 
woman  in  those  days,  and  even  to-day,  in  Italy. 
Father  followed  the  usual  classical  course  of  the 
time,  and  upon  his  graduation,  became  instructor 
in  jurisprudence,  and  later  in  life  took  up  the  prac- 
tice of  law  in  his  native  city,  Molfetta.  At  one  time 
in  his  life,  I  am  not  certain  just  when,  he  established 
and  conducted  a  private  boys'  school.  In  this  he 
seems  to  have  done  his  best  woi'k,  for  to  this  day 
there  are  not  a  few  men  in  Molfetta  and  in  other 
parts  of  Italy,  and  occasionally  I  have  run  across 
one  in  America,  who  revere  his  memory  as  that  of 
a  beloved  teacher.  Father  took  an  active  interest 
in  public  life;  occasionally  he  wrote  articles  on 
patriotic  and  civic  subjects.  He  had  a  fair  amount 
of  ability  as  a  public  speaker,  which  he  devoted  to 
the  service  of  his  country,  especially  against  all 


14    THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


forms  of  corrupt  politics,  of  wliich  he  was  a  mighty 
foe.  In  Molfetta,  Don  Coli  (an  abbreviation  of 
Don  Nicolino)  as  he  was  known,  was  respected  and 
honored  chiefly  for  his  sturdiness,  his  courage,  his 
integrity  and  his  sense  of  honor. 

In  his  home  father  was  primarily  law  and  sec- 
ondarily love.  Although  I  lived  with  grandmother 
I  came  under  the  influence  of  both.  In  fact,  on 
account  of  my  being  the  eldest  son  and  the  one  who 
was  to  perpetuate  grandfather's  good  name,  father 
took  special  pains  with  me.  In  the  exercise  of  his 
function  as  law  giver,  father  made  use  of  two 
methods ;  that  of  being  a  teacher  and  that  of  apply- 
ing the  rod.  He  was  first  and  last  the  "pater 
familias,"  whose  word  could  seldom  be  questioned, 
and  never  disputed.  He  taught  us  many  Latin  and 
Italian  proverbs,  dealing  primarily  with  outward 
conduct  and  good  manners.  Most  of  these  were  of 
a  negative,  or  don't-i/ou-do-this-or-tJmt  type.  He 
was  anxious  that  we  should  bear  ourselves  honorably 
in  life,  mainly  emphasizing  obedience  and  good  be- 
havior as  well  as  respect  toward  authority  and  to 
the  aged. 

I  remember  him  more  vividly  as  an  applier  of  the 
rod,  however,  simply  because  of  the  iitipression^  he 
made  upon  me  in  that  way.  That  he  sometimes 
resorted  to  severe  forms  of  punishment  I  have  no 
doubt,  though  I  suppose,  in  keeping  with  the  usual 
custom,  I  should  laud  the  punishments  which  I  re- 


A   NATIVE  OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  15 


ceived  in  my  youth.  He  would  often  tie  me  to  a 
bed  post  and  keep  me  there  for  hours.  Once,  for 
having  stayed  away  from  school  a  day,  he  locked 
me  in  a  room,  with  big  nails  driven  in  the  door,  to 
prevent  mother  from  coming  to  my  rescue.  He  kept 
me  there  on  bread  and  water  for  a  whole  week.  Of 
course  I  had  more  than  just  bread  and  water,  for 
dear  mother  managed  to  slip  me  something  every 
day  by  means  of  a  long  pole  from  the  balcony  of 
the  adjoining  room.  As  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
however,  it  was  bread  and  water  I  had  that  week 
and  no  more.  My  brothers  as  well  as  I  came  to  fear 
him  greatly  and  often  we  would  take  refuge  in  the 
home  of  some  relative  in  order  to  escape  his  punish- 
ments. 

And  yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  one  who  did 
not  know  him  as  we  did,  father  was  at  times  as  tender 
and  gentle  as  a  mother.  Though  he  seldom  played 
with  us,  he  loved  us  with  a  genuine  and  deep-seated 
affection.  I  have  very  dear  memories  of  the  times 
he  used  to  take  me  for  long  walks  in  the  country  by 
day  and  on  the  mole  in  the  cool  of  the  evening.  At 
such  times  I  would  catch  ghmpses  of  the  sweetest 
part  of  his  nature.  He  used  to  love  to  go  fishing, 
and  almost  always  would  take  me  with  him,  reveahng 
then  real  tenderness  and  affection.  He  was  as  gentle 
in  the  expression  of  his  loving  nature  as  he  was 
stem  in  the  practice  of  his  rod  philosophy. 

Mother  was  born  of  humbler  parentage,  and 


16    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

therefore  could  not  boast  of  a  "Donna"  before  her 
name.  But  she  was  gentleness  itself  and  the  very 
embodiment  of  all  that  goes  to  make  a  truly  noble 
woman.  While  yet  quite  young,  she  lost  her  father, 
who  was  captain  and  owner  of  a  vessel,  on  the  rocky 
and  treacherous  sea  of  Quamero.  This  cast  a 
veil  of  sadness  over  her  whole  life.  But  it  was  a 
sadness  in  which  was  interwoven  a  tenderness  su- 
premely sweet;  it  shone  in  her  jet-black  eyes  and  her 
delicately  transparent  face,  which  always  beamed 
with  a  smile  beneath  her  broad,  noble  forehead  and 
her  rich  waving  hair.  She  was  stately  in  body, 
beautiful  in  soul,  patient  beyond  compare,  prudent 
and  systematic  in  home  management,  ever  busy 
with  her  large  family,  constantly  sheltering  us  from 
the  stormy  nature  of  father,  ever  kind  to  servants, 
and  gentle  even  to  "Fanfia"  our  white  pet  dog,  who 
had  the  unhappy  faculty  of  making  ever  more  work 
for  her  by  tearing  as  many  of  our  clothes  as  he 
could  possibly  get  hold  of.  Mother's  name  was 
Angela  and  her  face  and  character  were  those  of  an 
angel.  She  left  an  indelible  impression  upon  the 
lives  of  us  all. 

There  was  one  phase  of  my  mother's  life  which 
gives  me  grief  as  I  think  of  it.  Because  she  was 
bom  of  humble  parentage,  she  was  looked  upon 
somewhat  condescendingly  by  relatives  on  my 
father's  side,  most  of  whom  lived  not  upon  present 
merits,  but  in  the  glory  of  their  heritage.  Some 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  17 


of  them  even  went  so  far  as  to  attempt  to  create 
a  similar  attitude  on  the  part  of  her  children  toward 
her;  but  I  am  happy  to  say  their  efforts  were  in 
vain,  so  deep  was  our  love  for  mother.  A  similar 
attitude  was  maintained  by  some  relatives  toward 
an  aunt  of  mine.  Though  she  was  a  beautiful  char- 
acter, a  woman  of  refinement  and  rare  accomplish- 
ments, because  she  was  a  native  of  Fiume  and 
therefore  not  an  Italian,  she  was  looked  upon  as  a 
despised  "foreigner"  by  those  members  of  our 
paternal  family  who  lived  in  the  glory  of  the  has- 
been. 

There  were  eight  children  in  my  father's  home, 
four  sisters,  all  older  than  myself,  and  three  broth- 
ers, all  younger.  We  had  a  happy  life  together, 
having  pretty  much  the  same  kind  of  experiences 
and  the  same  kind  of  play-life  as  children  do  all 
over  the  world.  We  were  not  privileged  to  have 
many  toys  other  than  those  of  our  own  making. 
My  oldest  sister  had  a  complete  set  of  delicate  doll 
house  furnishings,  but  aside  from  this,  I  do  not 
recall  that  any  of  us  had  very  much  to  play  with. 
We  boys  spent  so  much  time  in  the  out-of-doors 
that  the  thought  of  toys  never  entered  our  minds. 
Naturally,  we  sometimes  had  our  quarrels,  and  I 
seemed  to  have  been  the  thorn  in  the  flesh,  especially 
in  the  lives  of  my  sisters.  And  yet  we  loved  each  other 
profoundly.  To  one  of  my  sisters,  Agata,  I  took 
a  special  fancy.    Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was 


18    THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGEANT 

so  different  from  the  rest  of  us.  She  had  hair  which 
was  almost  red,  which  would  have  puzzled  the 
eugenist  to  explain,  for  certainly  there  was  none  of 
that  particular  tint  or  anything  near  to  it  in  our 
whole  family.  Agata  was  also  different  because  of 
her  almost  Irish  sense  of  humor.  She  would  make 
us  almost  spht  our  sides  with  laughter.  She  was 
a  very  independent  human  being,  insisting  among 
other  things  on  choosing  her  own  lovers  without 
reference  to  the  wishes  of  the  family.  I  remember 
how  enraged  I  became  with  one  of  her  lovers  for 
capturing  her  exuberant  and  lovely  affection. 
Though  I  was  a  mere  midget,  I  set  out  to  punish 
him,  and  meeting  liim  by  the  Great  Gate  one  evening, 
I  started  to  kick  and  to  bite  him. 

While  we  all  received  instruction  of  various  kinds, 
dealing  mainly  with  good  manners  and  proper  con- 
duct, our  rehgious  education  was  very  hmited, 
almost  a  negligible  factor  in  our  lives.  Religion 
was  considered  primarily  a  woman's  function,  un- 
necessary to  men,  and  a  matter  about  which  they 
continually  joked.  Even  for  the  women  of  our 
household,  religion  consisted  simply  in  going  to  con- 
fession perhaps  once  a  month  and  in  going  to  mass 
every  Sunday.  We  children  continuously  heard  our 
male  relatives  speak  disparagingly  of  rehgion,  if 
religion  it  could  be  called.  They  would  speak  of  the 
corruption  of  the  Church.  The  men  also  complained 
of  the  exorbitant  expenditure  of  money  in  connec- 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  19 


tion  with  the  numerous  feasts.  Father  might  have 
been  called  a  "modernist."  He  had  no  particular 
interest  in  the  religious  system  of  his  town  and 
times,  and  although  mother  and  grandmother  were 
very  devout,  I  remember  attending  Sunday  School 
only  once  in  all  my  boyhood  days.  Grandmother 
would  take  me  to  mass  and  would  talk  to  me  about 
becoming  a  priest,  but  it  was  most  boresome  to  me. 

We  were  taught  the  catechism  in  a  perfunctory 
way.  The  only  religious  reading  I  ever  did  as  a 
boy, — I  was  about  ten  years  of  age, — ^was  once 
when  I  was  left  alone  in  the  house.  I  ransacked  the 
place,  as  boys  will,  and  finally  ran  across  a  book 
of  "Bible  stories."  How  such  a  book  ever  got  into 
our  home  I  cannot  say.  I  squatted  myself  down 
on  the  floor  and  devoured  some  of  the  chapters. 
All  the  while  I  was  conscious  of  my  wickedness  in 
reading  such  stories,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  me  that 
my  grandmother  was  sinful  for  having  such  a  book 
in  her  house.  Even  so,  to  me  that  reading  was 
most  sweet.  One  of  the  stories  was  that  of  the 
Resurrection  of  Jesus.  It  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  my  mind.  It  puzzled  me;  I  could  not  figure 
out  how  Jesus  could  walk  again  on  earth  after  he 
was  dead.  But  I  never  let  it  be  known  that  I  had 
read  the  story.  I  was  afraid  I  would  be  punished 
for  reading  the  "Bad  Book." 

The  relations  between  the  various  households  of 
our  whole  family  were  in  the  main  most  cordial.  Ours 


20    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

was  a  social  existence  as  truly  spontaneous  and 
beautiful  as  it  was  natural.  All  the  long  line  of 
relatives,  uncles,  aunts  and  cousins  of  every  degree 
lived  in  Molfetta.  This  gave  us  an  opportunity  for 
much  social  intercourse.  We  had  a  custom  of  fre- 
quently getting  together  in  the  evenings  for  social 
good  times.  The  word  would  be  given  out  that  on 
such  an  evening  we  were  to  meet  in  this  or  that  home. 
We  generally  began  to  assemble  soon  after  supper, 
and  remained  the  entire  evening,  sometimes  until 
quite  late.  The  women  would  immediately  form 
themselves  into  groups  to  discuss  topics  of  interest 
to  them,  while  the  men,  who  generally  came  later, 
would  gather  about  a  table  and  play  games.  We 
children  would  squat  ourselves  on  the  tiled  floor 
for  frolic  and  games  of  our  own.  Occasionally  we 
would  sing  folk  songs  and  patriotic  airs.  If  the 
accommodations  afforded  were  sufficient,  the  adults 
would  dance.  The  children  were  seldom  permitted 
to  join  them  except  in  the  quadrille.  It  was  never 
necessary  to  import  music  for  such  occasions,  for 
our  family,  like  every  household  in  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Italy,  could  boast  of  plenty  of  mu- 
sicians. One  played  the  guitar,  another  the  man- 
dolin, a  third  the  flute,  a  fourth  the  cornet  or 
trombone.  Pianos  were  rare  in  our  homes ;  first, 
because  they  were  far  too  expensive,  and  then  be- 
cause they  were  not  as  "social"  as  the  ready-to- 
carry  instruments.    On  some  occasions  the  women- 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  21 


folk  would  put  aside  their  dignity  and  burst  into 
spontaneous  frolicsome  dances  of  their  own  to  the 
quaint  music  of  the  tambourine.  At  these  times,  we 
had  our  greatest  merriment.  What  a  mirth-pro- 
voking sight  it  was ;  we  children  would  stand  on 
the  "side  lines"  with  sides  almost  splitting  with 
laughter,  and  I  cannot  refrain  from  bursting  into 
the  same  kind  of  laughter  as  I  write  these  lines. 

Usually  "eats"  and  drinks  were  served  by  the 
entertaining  household ;  almonds,  walnuts,  raisins 
and  stuffed  dates  or  figs,  with  home-made  cakes  and 
candy.  The  best  of  the  year's  wine  and  "rosolio" — 
a  delicate  liquor — were  served.  The  children  were 
seldom  allowed  to  touch  the  liquors,  and  then  in  a 
much-diluted  form.  Frequently  the  beverages  were 
served  after  the  children,  tired  with  play,  had  been 
put  to  sleep,  a  round  dozen  in  each  bed.  Then  the 
adults  W9uld  go  on  with  "more  interesting"  sub- 
jects, which  they  would  not  discuss  in  the  presence 
of  the  children.  More  than  once  have  I  and  some 
equally  daring  cousin  boldly  crept  out  of  bed  to 
take  a  peep  or  to  listen  through  the  keyhole  and  see 
what  was  going  on. 

The  party  over,  the  children  would  be  shaken 
partly  awake,  and  in  the  midst  of  much  weeping 
and  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth,  each  family 
would  gather  its  brood  and  make  its  way  through 
the  darkened  streets  toward  their  own  homes.  I  for 
one  never  troubled  myself  about  the  beautiful  stars 


22     THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

of  the  Italian  sky  on  such  occasions,  for  I  was 
generally  in  the  land  of  I-am-still-asleep.  Hanging 
to  grandmother's  arm  and  walking  as  in  a  trance, 
I  would  reach  home  as  much  in  the  land  of  Nod  as 
though  I  had  not  been  aroused  at  all. 

These  festive  occasions  generally  took  place  dur- 
ing the  more  unpleasant  months  of  fall  and  winter. 
For  in  the  warmer  months  of  spring  and  summer 
and  early  autumn,  we,  like  everybody  else,  spent 
much  of  our  time  out-of-doors.  For  about  six 
months  of  the  year  we  went  daily  to  the  sea-baths ; 
the  invigorating  salt  baths  making  it  unnecessary 
for  us  to  have  indoor  bathrooms.  For  nearly  nine 
months  of  the  year  the  local  band  gave  concerts  in 
the  Villa  Garibaldi  or  on  the  Corso,  and  the  people 
would  throng  to  hear  them.  We  would  spend  entire 
evenings  taking  a  "passegiata,"  or  leisurely  stroll, 
up  and  down  the  Corso  or  by  the  quiet  waters  of  the 
harbor.  Invariably  we  would  sit  in  groups  around 
the  marble-topped  tables  of  the  cafes  to  eat  a 
"gelato"  (ice  cream),  or  to  sip  a  delicious  "orzata" 
— an  almond  drink.  Occasionally  a  group  would 
go  for  a  launch  ride  on  the  peaceful  waters ;  for 
sheer  beauty  and  enjoyment  these  rides  could 
scarcely  be  surpassed.  Especially  on  a  moonlight 
night,  as  was  often  the  case,  the  balmy  air,  the 
gentle  breezes,  the  melodious  strains  of  the  songs 
of  southern  Italy,  and  the  sweet  music  of  the 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  23 

mandolin  or  guitar  wafted  over  the  waters,  made 
these  truly  enjoyable  and  memorable  occasions. 

In  the  summer  we  used  to  go  to  the  country,  es- 
pecially at  vintage  time.  I  had  an  aunt  who  owned 
a  large  farm,  and  I  was  always  invited  there  at 
grape-gathering  time.  It  was  the  happiest  season 
of  all  the  year.  I  found  my  stomach  Hmitless  in  its 
capacity  for  expansion.  But  best  of  all  was  watch- 
ing the  whole  process  of  wine-making;  the  men  and 
women,  with  bent  backs,  cutting  the  clusters  from 
the  vines  with  their  tiny  sickles ;  the  enormous  cane 
or  wicker  baskets  which  the  women  and  girls  car- 
ried on  their  heads ;  the  big  wooden  vats,  with  men 
naked  up  to  their  loins  madly  tramping  the  grapes 
to  extract  the  juices;  the  quaint  skins  in  which  the 
new  wine  was  poured;  the  odd-shaped  "water 
wagons"  to  haul  the  "juice"  to  the  town.  Most  of 
all  I  loved  to  listen  to  the  plaintive  songs  which  the 
"contadini"  would  sing.  All  this  made  vintage  time 
the  most  pleasurable  season  of  all  the  year. 

We  had  a  wealthy  distant  relative  who,  though 
she  managed  to  keep  quite  distant  from  all  of  us, 
occasionally  invited  me,  the  namesake  of  our  fam- 
ily hero,  to  visit  her  at  her  villa  in  the  country. 
The  villa  was  one  of  artistic  beauty,  with  its  walls 
pure  white,  red-tiled  roof  and  deep-green  trimmings. 
A  picturesque  stone  wall  covered  with  creeping  vines 
completely  surrounded  it.     Long  winding  paths, 


24     THE    SOUL    OF   AX  IMMIGRANT 

with  rich  pergolas  overhanging  them,  led  from  the 
road  to  the  entrance.  On  either  side  and  through- 
out the  grounds  a  veritable  paradise  of  flowers ; 
roses  and  tube-roses,  carnations  and  lilies  of  every 
variety,  morning-glories  and  pansies  wafted  their 
perfume  through  the  balmy  air.  Stately  trees  arose 
as  sentinels  about  the  villa,  while  here  and  there 
throughout  the  grounds  fountains  gushed  forth  their 
limpid  waters  and  marble  seats  invited  one  to  a  life 
of  leisure.  The  villa  was  furnished  most  luxuriously 
with  costly  rugs  and  vases  and  rare  furniture  from 
many  lands. 

Not  far  from  the  villa  and  in  bold  contrast  to  it, 
stood  the  crude  huts  of  the  "contadini."  These 
used  to  interest  me  greatly.  They  were  cone-shaped 
little  dwellings  made  of  rough  stone  or  a  mud  mix- 
ture not  unlike  adobe.  Each  had  a  small  opening 
which  served  as  a  doorway,  while  the  roof  had  a 
small  round  hole  which  served  as  both  window  and 
chimney.  The  floor  was  made  of  plain  Mother 
Earth;  stones  were  the  only  chairs,  straw  the  only 
bed.  In  these  huts  lived  the  "contadini"  who  worked 
on  my  relative's  farm  and  made  possible  the  up-keep 
of  the  large  holdings  which  she  possessed. 

Of  all  the  seasons  of  the  year,  Christmas  time  was 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  for  the  people  as  a  whole. 
It  was  a  season  when  a  truly  religious  spirit  per- 
vaded every  home.  The  weather  was  generally  clear 
and  calm,  the  sun  at  mid-day  bright  and  beautiful, 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  25 

the  skies  of  the  night  fathomless,  the  stars  innumer- 
able and  bright  as  gems. 

There  was  but  little  outward  display  at  Christmas 
time.  Save  for  the  noise  we  boys  made  with  the 
firing  of  fire-crackers  and  of  rude  little  cannons  of 
our  own  making,  all  was  tranquil  and  peaceful.  In 
the  perfect  stillness  of  the  night  the  humble  trouba- 
dours would  wend  their  way  from  street  to  street, 
from  alley  to  alley,  singing  their  melodious  carols 
to  the  quaint  music  of  the  bagpipe  and  the  flute. 
For  a  few  centimes  they  would  stop  beneath  a  win- 
dow to  chant  their  ancient  songs,  while  the  people 
lying  in  their  beds  would  listen  to  the  melody  as  to 
a  chorus  of  unseen  angels. 

Christmas  also  was  a  time  of  real  feasting.  We 
had  no  Christmas  trees  or  exchanging  of  gifts  in 
Molfetta;  in  fact,  we  never  knew  of  such  a  custom. 
True,  we  cliildren  hung  up  our  stockings,  but  that 
was  on  St.  Nicholas  Day,  the  5th  of  January,  and 
instead  of  bothering  with  stockings,  we  preferred  to 
hang  up  our  adults'  long-legged  boots,  which  would 
hold  much  more.  But  so  far  as  good  things  to  eat 
were  concerned,  Christmas  Day  was  the  day  of  all 
the  year.  Every  family,  however  poor,  had  a  real 
feast.  The  very  best  of  all  the  year's  yield,  kept  for 
this  occasion,  would  be  brought  forth.  There  were 
fruits  of  every  kind;  clusters  of  luscious  grapes, 
quinces,  pears,  apples  and  pomegranates,  long 
strings  of  figs,  boxes  of  dates,  and  honey-dew  melons 


26     THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


sweeter  than  honey;  all  would  be  disenthroned  from 
their  lofty  pantry  dominions  from  which  for  months 
they  had  been  tempting  the  yearning  eyes  of  chil- 
dren, and  placed  before  all  to  have  and  to  hold  until 
they  could  no  more.  Then  there  were  big  platters 
of  home-made  candies  and  cakes,  fritters  and  cookies 
of  every  variety  and  shape,  vegetables  and  meats 
of  every  conceivable  sort — my  mouth  waters  even 
now  to  think  of  the  Christmas  table  of  my  childhood. 

The  Christmas  dinner  in  our  home  was  a  memor- 
able occasion  not  alone  because  of  the  good  things 
to  eat,  but  also  because  of  a  special  custom  we  had 
of  showing  our  gratitude  to  our  parents.  For  days 
before  Christmas  we  would  hunt  high  and  low  for 
letter  paper  with  the  best  decorations  and  mottoes. 
Then  we  children  would  vie  with  one  another  in  com- 
posing the  best  letter  or  little  poem  to  express  our 
love  for  mother  and  father.  Before  the  Christmas 
dinner,  we  would  hide  these  in  some  place  on  the 
table,  perhaps  folded  in  a  napkin,  under  the  plate 
of  father  or  mother,  and  even  under  the  tablecloth. 
Our  parents  would  first  pretend  not  to  see  them,  and 
would  feign  surprise  when  they  were  found,  and  the 
best  part  of  the  Christmas  dinner  was  to  hear  father 
and  mother  read  the  letters  we  had  written,  and 
then  pronounce  which  one  was  the  best. 

On  Christmas  Eve  the  streets  of  Molfetta  would 
be  lighted  by  myriads  of  dimly-burning  lamps. 
From  every  window  of  every  house,  however  poor  its 


A  NATIVE  OF    ANCIENT   APULIA  27 


inhabitants  might  be,  a  small  oil  lamp  would  send 
forth  its  humble  rays,  until  the  whole  town  would 
be  enveloped  in  a  yellow  haze  of  somber  and  subdued 
lights  flickering  their  welcome  to  the  Christ  Child. 

On  Christmas  Eve  too,  was  held  the  Midnight 
Mass.  I  remember  of  attending  only  once,  but  the 
memory  of  it  is  as  viAad  as  if  I  had  attended  on  this 
very  night.  Within,  the  Cathedral  was  all  a  mass 
of  dazzling  light;  candles  flickered  everywhere,  even 
at  the  top  of  the  pillars  and  on  the  uppermost 
cornices  of  the  dome.  Enormous  candelabra  with 
myriads  of  shining  crystals  cast  their  silver  sheen 
upon  the  scene  below.  A  purple  velvet  curtain  hung 
from  the  top  of  the  massive  columns  to  the  floor  at 
the  foot  of  the  Great  Altar,  as  if  conscious  of  the 
stately  dignity  of  its  rich  folds  and  golden  fringes. 
Worshiping  folk,  young  and  old,  rich  and  poor, 
thronged  the  church  to  its  very  doors.  A  spirit  of 
quiet  reverence  pervaded  all.  As  the  midnight  hour 
drew  near,  a  deeper  and  more  solemn  stillness  crept 
over  the  great  throng.  Just  before  the  hour  of 
twelve,  a  silver  bell  tinkled  softly.  The  great 
audience  became  breathless  and,  as  one  man,  bended 
its  knees,  remaining  a  few  moments  thus  in  silent 
adoration.  My  child  eyes  looked  on  in  wonderment 
on  this  matchless  scene.  The  curtain  before  the 
Great  Altar  slowly  parted  without  a  sound,  as  if 
opened  by  angel  hands.  Splendor  was  added  to 
splendor.   From  the  choir  loft  a  viol  began  to  weave 


28     THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

a  gentle  web  of  music.  And  now  a  voice  was  heard 
softly  chanting,  then  another  and  another,  till  of  a 
sudden  the  whole  choir  burst  forth  in  jubilant  song 
as  if  a  thousand  thousand  angel  voices  were  swelling 
their  refrain.  The  trumpets  of  the  great  organ  sent 
forth  sharp,  joyous  peals.  It  seemed  as  if  Heaven 
itself  had  come  to  earth  to  greet  the  New  Born 
Child.  The  audience  then  arose,  joining  in  an 
antiphonal  song,  after  wliich  the  mass  was  said,  and 
the  throng  silently  wound  their  way  homeward  be- 
neath the  brilliant  sky  of  the  midnight  hour. 

Impressive  as  was  this  event,  there  was  something 
which  took  place  in  the  intimate  circle  of  our  home 
which  left  a  far  more  lasting  impression.  It  was 
the  Presepio — the  Manger.  For  days  before  Christ- 
mas Eve  we  boys  would  gather  soil  and  sod,  twigs 
and  branches,  and  bringing  them  to  the  house,  with 
boxes  we  would  build  a  miniature  Bethlehem.  We 
would  make  little  houses  and  winding  roads,  and 
plant  little  twig-trees  until  it  looked  like  a  natural 
hillside.  On  Christmas  Eve  father  would  open  a  box, 
which  he  kept  sacredly  locked  all  during  the  year, 
and  we  would  take  out  myriads — so  it  seemed  to  us — 
of  little  terra-cotta  figures,  each  representing  a 
character  in  the  story  of  the  Nativity.  Under  his 
direction  we  would  place  each  where  it  belonged ;  the 
Magi  just  coming  over  the  hill,  with  only  the  heads 
of  their  camels  showing ;  far  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
with  a  dim  candle  burning  back  of  it,  was  the  Star 


A   NATIVE   OF    ANCIENT    APULIA  29 


of  Bethlehem ;  over  to  the  right  were  the  Shepherds 
keeping  their  flocks  by  night ;  here  were  the  people 
coming  down  the  hill  with  their  gifts ;  while  near  the 
floor  was  a  little  stable  with  Mary,  Joseph  and  the 
Babe  in  the  Manger. 

Then  father  would  gather  all  his  children  in  a  half- 
circle  about  the  Presepio,  mother  in  the  center  sit- 
ting in  a  small  chair  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  he  would 
tell  us  the  Story.  A  few  candles  cast  a  soft  and 
gentle  light  upon  the  scene.  With  a  long  cane  he 
would  point  to  the  various  personages,  and  thus  he 
would  narrate  to  us  the  whole  story  of  the  birth  of 
the  Christ  Child. 

As  I  write  these  lines,  it  is  Christmas  Eve,  and 
exactly  twenty  years  since  I  last  sat  around  the 
Presepio.  Father  and  mother  are  gone  to  the  land 
from  whence  there  is  no  returning;  the  home  of  my 
childhood  is  no  more,  and  I  am  in  America,  far,  far 
from  home.  Sometimes,  "like  tides  on  a  crescent 
sea  beach"  come  longings  for  Italy  and  the  scenes 
of  my  childhood. 


i 
I 


THE  CALL  OP  THE  SEA 


And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean!  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward;  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 

George  Gordon  Byro 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  SEA 

I MUST  have  been  very  young  when  I  was  first 
sent  to  school.  Molfetta  maintained  a  public 
kindergarten,  to  which  well-ordered  families 
^ent  their  children.  The  kindergarten  was  held  in  a 
very  old  building,  once  a  monastery,  which  had  been 
taken  over  by  the  government  for  school  purposes. 
This  was  the  only  school  building  in  the  city  and  it 
housed  all  the  school  children  from  the  kindergarten 
up  through  the  elementary  grades,  as  well  as  some 
of  the  "ginnasio"  classes.  I  recall  vividly  the  long 
dark  halls  and  the  endless  lines  of  children  seated 
on  each  side  of  long  rows  of  tables,  and  playing 
with  toys.  I  remember  the  tediousness  of  sitting 
day  in  and  day  out  by  one  of  those  tables,  and  I 
can  think  of  no  particular  contribution  which  kin- 
dergarten instruction  made  to  my  life.  As  I  grew 
older  I  was  sent  to  the  elementary  school,  to  which 
attendance  is  compulsory  thoughout  Italy. 

As  I  have  already  indicated,  it  was  grandmother's 
plan,  in  which  my  father  concurred,  that  I  should 
prepare  myself  for  a  profession  and  thus  follow 
in  the  footsteps  of  my  grandfather.    To  that  end, 

[33] 


34    THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

I  was  to  go  through  the  elementary  grades  and  on 
through  the  "ginnasio"  and  the  "liceo"  to  the  Uni- 
versity. If  a  more  scrutinizing  eye  had  been  watch- 
ing the  unfolding  of  my  life,  however,  it  would  have 
observed  that  the  winds  were  driving  my  bark,  at 
least  for  the  time  being,  in  an  entirely  diiFerent  di- 
rection. I  do  not  wish  to  suggest  that  my  father 
or  my  grandmother  did  not  possess  the  average 
capacity  for  observation,  but  like  many  parents 
and  relatives  everywhere,  instead  of  guiding  the 
development  of  natural  tendencies  in  child  life,  they 
tried  to  stifle  them  and  to  superimpose  a  cut  and 
dried  plan  formulated  long  before  my  birth. 

I  must  have  shown  a  tendency  for  other  than 
school  and  professional  life  from  my  earhest  days. 
For  even  my  kindergarten  books  were  covered  with 
crude  drawings  of  ships.  My  grade-school  books, 
still  preserved  by  an  aunt  of  mine,  are,  from  cover 
to  cover,  one  solid  mass  of  ship  pictures.  At  every 
opportunity  I  would  run  away  to  the  harbor,  to 
play  by  the  water's  edge  or  on  the  ships.  When 
I  was  held  in  check,  I  used  to  go  up  on  the  roof 
of  the  house  in  which  I  lived  with  grandmother 
and  cast  my  eyes  longingly  toward  the  water  and 
the  sliips.  In  stormy  weather  it  used  to  give  me 
a  feeling  of  special  exaltation  to  watch  the  sailing 
skiffs  driven  before  the  wind.  At  night  I  would  go 
up  on  the  roof,  and  stretching  mj'self  flat  on  my 
back,  I  would  look  up  into  the  infinite  depths  of 
that  southern  sky  and  count  the  stars  or  follow  the 


THE    CALL   OF   THE  SEA 


35 


Mioon  in  her  hastening  course  through  the  fleecy 
clouds.  My  toys  did  not  consist  of  blocks  or  sand 
pile,  but  ships  and  everything  that  had  to  do  with 
the  sea.  My  dreams  at  night  were  almost  inva- 
riably of  ships,  of  oceans  and  far  countries.  I 
even  dreamed  sometimes  that  I  could  walk  on  the 
waters  and  go  to  the  countries  beyond  the  horizon. 
Cities  of  which  I  had  heard  or  read  became  con- 
crete realities  in  my  mind's  eye;  I  could  have  de- 
scribed some  of  them  very  minutely  many  years  be- 
fore my  dream  was  reaUzed  and  I  actually  saw 
them.  Every  "soldo"  or  penny  I  could  lay  my  hands 
on  was  spent  for  little  play-ships.  I  remember  one 
instance  when  fifty  centimes  worked  an  instanta- 
neous miracle  of  healing.  I  was  ill  with  some  minor 
ailment.  My  father  came  to  see  me  and  gave  me 
the  money.  That  very  afternoon  I  was  perfectly 
well  again  and  might  have  been  seen  squatted  on 
the  sidewalk  fitting  into  place  on  one  of  my  little 
toy-ships  some  little  riggings  which  the  money  had 
bought. 

The  call  of  the  sea  was  in  my  very  soul,  and  in 
proportion  as  it  made  itself  felt,  to  that  extent 
all  other  interests  were  unconsciously  being  crowded 
out  of  my  boy  life.  School  held  absolutely  no  in- 
terest for  me.  I  would  rather  any  time  spend  my 
days  in  or  by  the  water  than  eat,  to  say  nothing 
of  carrying  a  book  under  my  arm,  and  I  can  act- 
ually recall  spending  whole  days  by  the  water  side. 
But  the  more  that  all-impelling  power  drove  me, 


36    THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

the  tighter  was  the  circle  of  restriction  drawn  about 
me.  Did  I  stay  away  from  school  to  play  b}'  the 
beach,  punishment  was  sure  to  follow  at  home,  and 
to  this  was  invariably  added  the  punishment  by  my 
teachers.  Of  one  I  have  a  gruesome  memory,  be- 
cause of  the  special  forms  of  torture  which  he  used. 
I  remember  that  once  he  made  me  kneel  on  the  desk 
platform  for  an  hour  or  more  with  my  hands  under 
my  knees.  Another  time  he  pinched  my  flesh  be- 
tween his  fingers  and  twisting  it,  held  it  until  I  was 
exhausted  and  faint  with  pain.  On  still  another  oc- 
casion he  locked  me  in  a  large  room  and  left  me 
there  all  night.  All  this  because  in  each  case  I  had 
been  absent  from  school  the  day  before. 

But  what  of  it.''  Was  not  an  irresistible  power 
driving  my  hfe,  and  could  I  be  responsible  for 
the  direction  in  which  it  was  leading  me.^  It  was 
the  call,  the  call  of  the  sea ;  the  heaving,  mighty 
sea,  it  was  caUing  me. 

At  every  opportunity  I  followed  it.  I  clearly  re- 
member the  first  time  I  heard  the  call  of  a  siren 
whistle.  I  must  have  been  about  ten  years  of  age. 
One  morning,  long  before  rising  time,  I  heard  from 
the  direction  of  the  harbor  an  ugly  noise.  When 
the  time  came  for  me  to  start  to  school,  my  little 
feet  led  me  in  another  direction.  I  went  to  the 
mole  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  what  kind  of  a  monster 
was  this  wliich  poured  forth  such  frightful  shrieks. 
Time  passed  and  I  forgot  all  about  school;  I  loi- 
tered near  the  English  coal  freighter  in  the  hope  of 


THE    CALL   OF   THE   SEA  37 

hearing  the  siren  blow  again.  There  I  remained 
until  evening,  my  noonday  luncheon  standing  me 
in  good  stead.  I  finally  contrived  to  get  on  board 
the  steamer  and  was  about  to  make  my  way  to  some 
advantageous  position  from  which  I  could  examine 
with  care  the  noisy  instrument  wliich  had  awakened 
me  that  morning,  when  I  felt  the  grip  of  a  mighty 
hand  on  the  seat  of  my  trousers,  pulling  me  down 
with  vengeance.  I  did  not  need  to  look  to  see  who 
it  was  or  what  it  was  all  about.  I  knew.  It  was 
my  father.  My  absence  from  school  had  already 
been  reported  to  him,  and  grandmother,  too,  had 
gone  to  him  with  her  usual  account  of  my  non-ap- 
pearance for  my  after-school  lunch.  My  father 
"escorted"  me  home,  but  not  with  gentleness.  And 
for  weeks  afterward  I  had  hvid  recollections  of  the 
Enghsh  coal  freighter  and  its  siren  whistle. 

In  time  I  learned  to  sail  a  boat  and  I  began  to 
make  frequent  trips  out  upon  the  Adriatic.  Oni 
more  than  one  occasion  I  came  near  getting  into 
serious  trouble.  One  evening  a  school  mate  and  I 
were  sailing  aU  by  ourselves,  when  a  stiff  breeze 
caught  our  little  boat  and  swept  it  along  mercilessly. 
We  did  not  know  where  we  were  going.  Toward 
midnight  we  found  ourselves  almost  upon  the  rocks 
near  Trani,  some  fifteen  kilometers  from  Molfetta. 
Just  then  a  gust  of  wind  flapped  the  sail  over  the 
mast  and  the  boat  all  but  capsized.  How  we  man- 
aged to  reach  shore  safely  I  cannot  say. 

As  time  went  on  I  naturally  became  associated 


38    THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

with  boys  of  like  inclination,  and  soon  found  myself 
the  leader  of  a  group,  call  it  a  "gang"  if  you  will, 
made  up  of  sea-loving  boys,  whose  one  passion  was 
their  belief  in  the  sovereignty  of  the  sea.  Pattern- 
ing our  actions  after  the  militaristic  emaronment 
in  which  we  lived,  we  organized  ourselves  into  a  mil- 
itary unit.  We  had  wooden  guns  and  swords,  and 
wooden  cannons  properly  mounted  on  wooden 
wheels.  We  had  our  drills  and  maneuvers.  One 
day  we  were  to  meet  to  engage  in  mortal  conflict 
a  gang  of  "land  lubbers"  whom  we  hated.  We  drew 
up  in  military  array  in  front  of  a  little  church  in 
Molfetta  vecchia,  ready  for  the  onset.  Our  wood- 
en swords  covered  with  silver  paper  shone  in  the 
sunlight.  Our  wooden  rifles  were  lifted  in  air; 
the  national  colors,  made  of  tissue  paper,  waved 
resplendently.  The  "fanfara"— bugle  band — with 
instruments  made  of  contorted  hands  and  wiggling 
fingers,  was  playing.  We  were  getting  nervous  and 
eager  for  the  battle,  when  to  my  utter  amazement 
I  saw  what  looked  like  a  gigantic  figure  coming 
toward  me.  It  was  one  of  my  uncles.  He  took  me 
by  the  ear  and  dragged  me  out  from  my  position  of 
military  importance  at  the  head  of  my  gang-bat- 
talion. O,  the  humiliation  of  an  officer  being  pulled 
from  his  post  in  this  manner!  Who  in  all  the  an- 
nals of  warfare  had  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing?  Of 
course  I  was  punished,  but  neither  the  humiliation 
which  I  suffered  nor  the  punishment  I  received  at 
the  hands  of  my  uncle  could  compare  with  what 


THE    CALL   OF   THE  SEA 


39 


came  to  me  a  few  days  later,  when  some  of  the 
"enemy,"  enraged  over  my  having  been  the  cause 
of  breaking  up  one  of  the  most  important  battles 
of  the  season,  saw  to  it  that  I  got  what  they  con- 
sidered my  just  dues.  Thus  I  suffered  for  my  mil- 
itaristic tendencies,  for  wanting  to  uphold  the  sov- 
ereignty of  the  sea  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the 
other,  for  indirectly  causing  a  period  of  peace  to 
come  over  the  neighborhood  boys. 

There  were  at  least  two  occasions  during  the 
year  when  our  sea-loving  gang  was  liable  to  get 
into  trouble.  One  of  these  was  Carnival.  Carnival 
was  a  time  of  special  carousing  in  Molfetta  and 
elsewhere.  Almost  every  one  went  about  in  masque- 
rade. Long,  loose  gowns,  somewhat  on  the  order  of 
those  worn  by  the  Ku-Klux  Klan,  were  the  order 
of  the  day.  Hoods  with  holes  for  the  eyes  were  worn 
over  the  head.  The  women  wore  elaborate  cos- 
tumes, especially  at  the  dances.  But  the  most 
exciting  part  of  Carnival,  so  far  as  we  boys  were 
concerned,  came  with  the  confetti.  These  were  not 
the  sham  paper  confetti  such  as  are  used  at  wed- 
dings in  America,  but  real  hard  candy,  sometimes 
filled  with  almonds  or  liquor.  Although  I  gen- 
erally had  some  difficulty  in  getting  into  costume 
because  father  did  not  approve  of  it,  and  grand- 
mother was  always  afraid  I  would  get  hurt,  I  us- 
ually managed  to  get  in  with  my  gang.  We  would 
get  hold  of  all  the  confetti  we  could  and  make  the 
rounds  of  the  homes  of  the  girls  who  claimed  our 


40    THE    SOUL    or    AN  IMMIGRANT 

special  attention.  When  they  appeared  on  the  bal- 
cony or  at  a  ^nndow  we  would  shower  them  with 
confetti.  If  a  girl  did  not  like  us  she  would  gen- 
erally shut  the  window  in  our  faces ;  whereupon,  in 
keeping  with  custom,  we  would  throw  candy  even 
more  furiously  than  before,  regardless  of  damage 
to  the  windowpanes. 

At  Carnival,  we  also  tried  to  get  in  at  some 
dance,  at  least  as  onlookers.  My  father  was  very 
strict  about  this  and  I  scarcely  ever  attempted  to 
go.  Once  I  managed  to  get  in  at  a  public  dance, 
but  again  a  big  man,  my  uncle,  caught  me  by  the 
ear,  and  I  had  to  go. 

The  other  occasion  which  usually  brought  the 
"gang"  into  some  kind  of  difficulty  was  the  feast 
of  San  Conrad,  which  comes  in  August.  San  Con- 
rad is  the  Patron  Saint  of  Molfetta,  and  is  reported 
to  have  performed  great  miracles.  It  is  a  time 
of  great  feasting.  The  whole  city  is  decorated. 
Along  the  Corso  a  continuous  archway  is  buUt, 
draped  with  gay  colors,  and  at  night  myriads  of 
little  oil  lamps  of  different  shades  are  lighted.  Dur- 
ing the  morning  there  is  a  procession,  and  late 
at  night  there  is  a  display  of  fireworks,  lasing  until 
near  dawn. 

One  year  while  the  fireworks  were  being  displayed, 
our  group  of  boys,  roaming  about  from  place  to 
place,  ran  across  a  young  cleric,  a  friend  of  ours. 
He  suggested  that  an  uncle  of  his  had  a  large  vine- 
yard four  or  five  kilometers  out  of  town,  and  that 


THE    CALL   OF   THE   SEA  41 

if  we  wanted  to,  instead  of  going  home  after  the 
fireworks,  we  could  go  out  to  the  vineyard  and 
have  all  the  grapes  we  wanted.  Without  hesitating 
we  acted  upon  his  suggestion,  and  about  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning  we  started  for  the  country.  Toward 
dawn  we  reached  a  beautiful  vineyard  of  white 
grapes.  This,  our  young  cleric  informed  us,  was 
liis  uncle's  place.  We  made  short  work  of  strip- 
ping a  few  vines  of  their  luscious  fruit,  piling  the 
grapes  on  our  coats,  which  we  had  spread  upon 
the  ground.  Then  we  sat  in  a  circle  and  ate  until 
we  could  eat  no  more.  We  played  ourselves  hungry 
again,  and  again  we  feasted  on  more  grapes.  It  was 
now  getting  toward  ten  o'clock;  and  some  one  sug- 
gested that  we  had  better  return.  We  decided  to  do 
so,  but  it  was  agreed  that  we  should  generously  pro- 
vide ourselves  with  enough  of  the  deUcious  fruit  to 
last  us  at  least  until  we  should  reach  town.  We  filled 
our  handkerchiefs  and  our  pockets ;  we  stored  away 
grapes  in  caps  and  blouses.  As  we  started  on  our 
way  we  heard  shots  fired  into  the  air  and  saw  the 
country  police  hot  on  our  trail.  Apparently  they 
had  been  lying  in  wait  for  the  right  moment  to 
pounce  upon  us.  We  called  to  our  young  cleric 
friend  to  come  to  the  front  and  explain  to  the 
police  that  this  was  the  vineyard  of  his  uncle.  But 
the  cleric  ran  at  double  speed,  one  speed  for  our 
call  and  one  to  flee  from  the  police.  We  all  took 
to  flight,  throwing  our  grape-laden  handkerchiefs 
as  we  went,  emptying  our  ?aps  and  hats,  our  pockets 


42    THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

and  blouses,  until  the  whole  roadside  was  strewn 
with  abandoned  booty.  Two  other  boys  and  I  found 
ourselves  together  on  a  side  road.  We  kept  on  run- 
ning, stopping  now  and  then  to  see  if  the  police 
were  following.  Finally  we  caught  up  with  a  rack 
loaded  with  hay.  We  pleaded  with  the  driver  to  let 
us  hide  in  his  load.  We  did  so,  but  like  the  os- 
trich, we  were  simply  waiting  for  our  doom.  The 
guards  came  up.  Whether  the  driver  gave  us  away 
we  never  knew,  but  we  did  find  out  that  aU  three 
of  us  were  in  the  hands  of  the  "carabinieri"  and  were 
being  taken  to  town.  The  policemen  were  deaf  to 
our  pleadings  and  promises  of  repentance — that 
repentance  which  is  only  sorrow  for  having  been 
caught.  They  led  us  to  police  headquarters  and 
our  parents  were  notified.  Toward  evening  my 
father  came  to  pay  my  five-hre  fine,  and  I  was  re- 
leased. He  took  me  home  and  then  there  was  music ; 
he  surely  took  not  five  but  a  hundred-lire's  worth 
out  of  me  that  night.  More  or  less  the  same  lot 
befell  all  the  other  boys. 

As  soon  as  we  had  suflSciently  recovered  from 
the  flesh  fines  we  had  to  pay  and  had  again  found 
our  bearings,  we  called  a  special  meeting  in  one 
of  our  secret  holes  back  of  the  long  mole.  And  then 
something  else  happened. 

One  evening,  dark  and  dreary,  we  called  our 
friend  the  cleric  into  compulsory  association  with 
us,  and  that  night  each  of  us  took  our  five-lire's 
worth  with  compound  interest  out  of  his  hide,  and 


THE    CALL   OF   THE  SEA 


43 


finished  him  up  with  a  good  ducking,  in  all  his 
priestly  robes,  in  the  waters  of  the  harbor.  He 
promised  never  to  do  it  again,  and  he  never  had 
tlie  chance ! 

Another  escapade  cost  me  the  sight  of  my  right 
eye.  As  I  have  already  indicated,  it  was  a  Christ- 
mas custom  for  boys  to  shoot  off  fire-crackers  and 
other  fireworks.  One  evening*  our  gang  secured 
a  number  of  empty  cartridges  and  some  powder,  and 
loading  them,  went  from  street  to  street  firing 
them.  In  a  "portone"  it  was  my  turn  to  touch 
the  match  to  the  fuse.  Besides  the  powder  the  car- 
tridge was  loaded  with  stones  to  make  all  the  noise 
possible.  I  hglited  the  match  and  in  less  time  than 
it  takes  to  tell  it,  the  explosion  took  place  and  I 
was  running  at  mad  speed  through  the  street  totally 
blinded  and  in  an  agony  of  pain.  Some  one  led  me 
home.  Father  came  home  soon,  having  heard  the 
sad  news.  And  he  who  was  usually  so  stem  was 
now  melted  with  tenderness.  I  remember  so  well 
how  he  came  to  my  bedside,  bent  over  me  and  asked 
if  I  could  see  "papa's  face."  When  I  replied  in 
the  negative,  he  hugged  and  caressed  me  and  burst 
into  a  torrent  of  tears.  It  seems  as  if  I  can  still 
feel  those  tears  dropping  upon  my  face. 

The  retina  of  the  right  eye  was  broken  and  the 
sight  permanently  injured.  Perhaps  had  the 
science  of  optometry  been  as  far  advanced  in  those 
days  as  now,  my  sight  might  have  been  saved. 

Another  event,  added  to  all  this,  made  every  one 


44    THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

in  the  family,  save  mother  and  ffrandmother,  con- 
clude that  I  was  a  truly  bad  boy.  This  event  was 
my  running  away  from  my  first  confession.  On  a 
given  Sunday,  Easter  I  think  it  was,  I  was  to  be 
confirmed.  My  dear  grandmother  spent  weeks  pre- 
paring for  this  occasion.  The  event  interested  me 
solely  because  of  the  new  suit  I  was  to  wear,  with 
my  first  long  trousers,  and  because  my  aunt  was 
making  all  kinds  of  special  sweets.  The  thing  it- 
self, the  coming  confirmation,  excited  no  concern  in 
my  mind.  One  afternoon  during  the  week  preceding 
the  gi'eat  day,  I  was  taken  by  my  aunt  to  our  fam- 
ily priest,  who  looked  after  all  our  spiritual  needs 
and  ailments.  I  was  to  confess  to  him,  and  on  the 
following  Sunday  my  confirmation  was  to  take 
place.  It  was  early  in  the  afternoon  when  we 
reached  the  church.  We  waited  in  the  sacristy  until 
the  priest  came  out.  After  my  aunt  had  chatted 
with  him  for  a  while,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  and 
led  me  into  a  large  dark  room.  In  the  center  of 
it  was  a  great  throne-like  chair,  which  I  saw  while 
the  door  was  open.  After  the  door  ^as  closed,  he 
led  me  in  the  darkness  to  the  chair,  and  seating 
himself  in  it,  asked  me  to  kneel  at  his  feet.  As  I 
was  in  the  act  of  kneeling,  I  suddenly  became  be- 
wildered, and  I  was  dazed.  The  door  had  not  been 
completely  shut  and  a  streak  of  light  came  through 
the  opening.  Quicker  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  I  was 
on  my  feet,  had  pushed  the  door  open,  rushed  by  my 
aunt,  who  looked  on  in  open-mouthed  wonder,  and 


THE   CALL   OF  THE  SEA 


45 


had  gone  out  to  play  by  the  shore  of  my  beloved  sea. 
It  was  my  first  and  only  confession. 

All  these  incidents,  coming  as  they  did  within  a 
period  of  about  three  years,  led  all  my  relatives, 
with  the  exception  of  mother  and  grandmother,  to 
conclude  that  there  was  nothing  good  in  the  boy 
over  whose  birth  they  had  so  rejoiced.  As  I  look 
back  upon  it  now,  I  realize  that  it  was  only  a 
natural  rebellion  against  the  fact  that  my  relatives 
were  attempting  to  crush  out  the  strongest  passion 
of  my  life.  Father  now  took  personal  charge  of 
me,  and  forgetting,  or  perhaps  not  understanding, 
the  fundamental  laws  of  life,  he  set  out  to  drive 
from  my  mind  the  very  thought  of  following  the 
sea.  He  planned  and  carried  out  a  definite  puni- 
tive expedition  into  the  territory  of  my  growing 
youth.  Like  many  parents,  dear  father  mistook 
coercion  for  discipline  and  compulsion  for  guidance. 

This  was  the  way  in  which  he  attempted  to  turn 
my  mind  from  the  sea.  In  Molfetta,  which  at  best 
is  somewhat  of  a  primitive  society,  castes  are 
a  part  of  the  laboring  world.  There  are  certain 
types  of  work,  especially  all  forms  of  manual  labor, 
which  are  considered  below  the  dignity  of  the  best 
families,  and  which,  if  followed  by  any  of  them, 
constitute  a  disgrace.  Now  my  father  thought  that 
by  subjecting  me  to  the  humiliation  of  menial  work, 
he  could  drive  me  back  to  school  in  a  more  sober 
state  of  mind.  His  abstract  logic  made  him  blind 
to  Nature's  all-compelling  imperatives.     He  first 


46    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

put  me  to  work  in  the  foundry,  then  in  the  soap 
factory,  in  a  blacksmith's  shop,  in  a  cobbler's  place 
and  in  the  electric  plant.  Strange  as  it  seemed  to 
all  my  relatives  whose  dignity  was  thus  offended,  I 
liked  it.  It  meant  new  experiences,  and  it  gave  me 
opportunity  to  put  into  unrestricted  use  the  cre- 
ative powers  of  my  youth.  Then  too,  when  I  real- 
ized that  I  was  earning  money  by  the  sweat  of  my 
toil,  it  gave  me  a  sense  of  new  life.  Moreover,  my 
earnings  afforded  me  a  chance  to  buy  more  things 
for  my  little  ships.  This  experience  gave  me  a 
new  consciousness  of  freedom.  Incidentally,  it  was 
while  working  in  the  soap  factory,  where  we  made 
Castile  soap,  which  was  shipped  to  America,  that 
I  had  my  first  vague  desire  to  visit  some  day  that 
far-off  country. 

Realizing  that  this  new  tack  was  not  bringing 
about  the  desired  result,  my  father  determined  to 
force  me  to  go  back  to  school  at  any  cost.  For 
a  long  time  he  personally  accompanied  me  to  the 
school  in  order  to  make  sure  that  I  attended. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  an  opportunity  came 
which,  if  utilized  rightly,  might  have  changed  the 
whole  course  of  my  life,  had  my  people  but 
seen  it.  A  certain  Professor  Rossi  from  northern 
Italy  had  interested  a  wealthy  man,  perhaps  a 
native  or  former  resident  of  Molfetta,  to  invest 
some  money  in  the  organization  of  a  boys'  band 
in  our  city.  He  sent  down  an  expert  teacher  with 
full  power  to  select  forty  boys,  train  them,  supply 


THE   CALL   OF  THE   SEA  47 

them  with  instruments  and  uniforms,  and  lead  them 
to  success.  I  do  not  remember  whether  there  was 
some  form  of  an  ehminatinff  contest,  nor  how  I 
came  to  be  selected,  but  I  was  chosen  to  play  one 
of  the  two  first  comets.  We  were  put  through  a 
period  of  intensive  training,  and  as  I  recall  it,  in 
a  remarkably  short  time  were  ready  to  make  our 
first  public  appearance.  For  my  part  I  was  having 
a  most  delightful  time  and  was  behaving  myself  very 
well.  But  grandmother  again  stepped  in  to  inter- 
fere. She  may  have  thought  that  if  I  became  too 
deeply  interested  in  the  band  I  would  deviate  from 
her  well-planned  scheme  for  my  life.  But  whatever 
the  reason,  forgetting  the  cries  of  my  childhood 
days,  she  insisted  that  playing  the  comet  was  too 
hard  for  my  lungs  and  that  I  must  be  taken  out 
of  the  band,  and  she  persuaded  my  father  to  do 
so.  The  band  went  on  with  its  training,  and  soon 
made  its  appearance  on  the  streets  of  the  city.  The 
whole  town  turned  out  to  witness  the  event.  The 
boys  in  their,  to  me,  wonderful  red  uniforms, 
marched  up  and  down  the  Corso  amid  the  applause 
of  the  populace,  and  my  eyes  stuck  out  in  envy, 
and  my  heart  ached  in  utter  misery.  Subsequently, 
the  band  made  a  tour  of  the  principal  cities  of 
Italy,  winning  several  prizes  and  gaining  national 
recognition.  If  there  was  any  one  thing  which  in 
my  boyish  heart  I  could  never  forgive  grandmother 
for,  it  was  her  influencing  my  father  to  take  me  out 
of  the  band. 


48    THE    SOUL   OF  AN 


IMMIGRANT 


Notwithstanding  all  these  boyhood  struggles,  I 
had  managed  bv  this  time  to  pass  all  my  grades  and 
was  ready  to  go  on  to  the  "ginnasio."  Grand- 
mother now  directed  that  I  should  enter  the  Semi- 
nary where  young  boys  were  trained  for  the  priest- 
hood. In  spite  of  aU  that  had  happened,  the  orig- 
inal plan  whereby  I  was  to  become  great  was  stiU 
ever-present  in  her  mind :  "First  priest,  then  teacher, 
and  then  statesman."  My  father  was  decidedly 
disinclined  to  make  a  priest  out  of  me,  both  be- 
cause of  his  natural  liberalism  and  because  he  knew 
too  much  of  the  corruption  of  certain  institutions. 
Then  too,  he  was  becoming  somewhat  discouraged 
over  the  way  my  life  was  tending.  Nevertheless, 
he  consented,  and  I  was  placed  in  the  Seminary. 

To  my  boyish  soul,  with  aU  its  love  for  the  open 
hfe,  this  was  worse  than  everything  else.  It  was 
like  a  dungeon  to  me,  a  tomb  in  which  I  found 
myself  buried  alive.  The  long  corridors,  the  dark 
recitation  haUs,  the  cell-like  dormitory  rooms,  were 
repulsive  beyond  comparison.  Stone,  cold  stone 
everywhere,  and  not  a  breath  of  fresh  air  to 
breathe.  To  my  nostrils,  with  the  love  of  the  ex- 
hilarating aroma  of  the  sea,  they  smelled  like  cat- 
acombs. Around  the  whole  enormous  building  was 
an  iron  fence  some  twelve  feet  high,  with  spear- 
heads on  the  top.  During  recreation  periods  when 
we  were  allowed  to  go  out  on  the  narrow  strip  of 
ground  around  the  institution,  I  would  stand  by 
the  bars  and  look  out  longingly  into  the  free  world. 


THE    CALL   OF   THE  SEA 


49 


One  evening  I  saw  some  of  my  boy  friends  playing 
near  the  Villa  Garibaldi  opposite,  and  I  tried  to 
get  away.  First  I  tried  to  scale  the  fence,  but 
failing  in  this,  I  attempted  to  squeeze  through  the 
bars,  only  to  find  myself  caught  between  them  with 
my  head  out  in  the  free  world  and  my  body  unable 
to  pass  through.  I  became  frightened  and  had  to  be 
pulled  out  by  the  "guardiano,"  or  gateraan. 

More  than  the  place  itself  I  hated  my  teachers, 
especially  my  professor  in  mathematics !  One  night 
I  came  in  with  my  lesson  unprepared.  He  took  me 
through  one  of  those  long  dreary  halls  into  a  physi- 
ological and  chemical  laboratory,  with  all  its  hor- 
rible smells.  Cunningly,  he  lighted  a  sulphur  match. 
In  the  light  of  its  ugly,  purplish  glow,  he  drew 
aside  a  curtain ;  before  me  stood  a  skeleton !  It 
frightened  me  stiff,  but  it  had  no  effect  on  the  de- 
velopment of  my  mathematical  bump.  Later,  one 
evening  I  came  again  with  my  lesson  unprepared. 
In  a  fit  of  anger  he  split  my  head  wide  open  with 
a  ruler.  With  blood  streaming  down  my  face  I 
ran  to  the  gate,  fought  with  the  gateman  and  man- 
aged to  escape.  My  father  was  furious,  and  for 
the  first  time  he  saw  the  way  the  winds  of  my  life 
were  blowing,  and  the  absolute  futility  of  forcing 
this  sort  of  training  upon  me.  He  did  not  insist 
upon  my  returning,  and  that  was  the  last  of  my 
school  life  in  Italy. 

The  years  covered  by  all  these  events  were  cer- 
tainly tempestuous  ones,  and  they  came  near  prov- 


50   THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

ing  fatal  to  my  life.  As  I  look  back  upon  all  that, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  I  suffered  in  those  ten- 
der years,  I  entertain  no  ill  feelings.  Rather,  a 
feeling  of  great  tenderness  comes  over  me  as  I  think 
of  all  the  pain  that  I  must  have  caused  my  parents 
and  especially  my  dear  grandmother,  who  had  fas- 
tened all  her  hopes  upon  me  for  the  perpetuation  of 
what  was  to  her  a  great  family  heritage.  It  was 
simply  a  matter  of  misconception  of  guidance,  and 
for  that  they  were  not  to  blame.  For  they,  like 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  people  throughout 
the  world,  were  blind  to  the  inherited  tendencies 
of  life,  and  tried  to  force  upon  me  a  plan  which 
was  not  in  harmony  with  all  those  tendencies  im- 
planted within  my  soul  long  before  my  birth.  They 
did  not  press  their  ear  to  my  boy-soul;  they  did 
not  hear  what  I  heard,  nor  see  what  I  saw.  It 
was  the  call,  the  mighty  call  of  the  sea,  the  undying 
call  for  the  larger  life.  And  it  was  that  call  that 
in  a  not  far-distant  day  was  to  lead  me  to  America, 
there  to  find  the  opportunity  for  a  true  unfolding. 


AMERICA 


America,  dear  motherland  of  men, 
Age  after  age  lodestar  of  immigrants, 
Hark  to  these  peoples  crying  in  the  mist! 
Here,  where  you  loose  your  cities  on  the  sea, 
Leviathans  of  lightning — spire  on  spire. 
Palace  and  hanging  garden  of  the  waves. 
Whose  spacious  splendors  house  the  lords  of  Ufe — 
Here,  under  all,  cramped  in  their  vitals,  swarm 
The  seekers  after  life — ^the  slaves  of  toil, 
With  hearts  of  yearning,  O  remember  these — 
And  feed  the  awful  hunger  of  their  hearts! 

Percy  MacKaye. 


CHAPTER  III 


AMERICA 

IN  the  winter  of  1897  I  had  reached  the  age  of 
thirteen.  My  relatives,  at  last  seeing  the  way 
the  winds  of  my  life  were  blowing,  consented  to 
let  me  go  to  sea.  Securing  a  written  permission  from 
my  parents,  I  applied  for  and  received  a  sailor's 
pass  book.  Then  I  enrolled  in  the  crew  of  a  coast- 
ing schooner,  the  Angela,  as  a  "mozzo"  (literally, 
"a  stub")  or  sailor  boy,  and  began  to  make  ready 
for  the  great  adventure  which  was  ultimately  to 
land  me  in  America. 

And  now  all  that  was  beautiful  and  tender  in 
the  lives  of  my  relatives  was  sweetly  revealed. 
As  after  a  period  of  sullen  weather.  Nature 
suddenly  loosens  her  chilling  grip  and  blossoms 
into  radiant  sunshine,  so  now  all  that  had  been 
curbing  and  repressive  in  their  attitude  became 
gladsome  expression.  The  very  persons  who  had 
vied  one  with  another  in  declaring  the  sea-impas- 
sioned lad  wayward,  unruly  and  bad,  now  unloosed 
their  deep-seated  affection  for  me  by  doing  all  man- 
mer  of  things  to  make  my  approaching  departure 

[53] 


54    THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

a  memorable  event.  One  uncle  bought  a  sea  chest, 
and  equipped  it  with  all  those  little  tools  and  trin- 
kets so  necessary  to  the  life  of  a  sailor;  another 
made  me  a  sailor  bag,  with  funny  eyelets  and  locks. 
One  aunt  contributed  pillow  sHps  and  stockings ; 
another  gave  me  some  fine  woolen  blankets ;  a  third 
towels  and  handkerchiefs.  Grandmother's  heart 
was  almost  breaking.  In  the  approaching  depar- 
ture of  the  boy  of  her  love,  she  saw  the  fading  for- 
ever of  her  dreams.  Her  gentle  hands  and  her  ten- 
der heart  could  not  do  enough;  during  that  winter 
she  wove  her  very  soul  into  the  stockings  and  un- 
derclothing which  she  knitted  with  her  own  hands, 
and  into  the  thousand  and  one  little  things  which 
she  made  to  contribute  to  my  comfort.  Some  of 
these  things  I  have  treasured  through  the  years. 
She  made  me  a  small  mattress  and  small  pillows, 
soft  as  down,  wliich  fitted  snugly  into  a  large  sailor 
bag,  later  to  accompany  me  to  America,  where  I 
was  to  lose  them. 

As  spring  drew  near  and  with  it  the  day  of  my 
departure,  every  one  brought  all  kinds  of  eatables 
and  tokens  of  love.  On  the  day  the  ship  left  the 
harbor  they  all  came  to  the  mole  to  see  me  sail 
away  toward  the  worlds  of  my  dreams. 

Toward  sunset  on  the  fifth  of  April,  1898,  the 
Angela  raised  anchor  and  spread  her  sails  to  a 
favorable  breeze.  The  sea  was  smooth,  the  air  was 
balmy,  the  sky  clear  as  crystal.     Molfetta  was 


AMERICA 


55 


wrapped  in  the  splendor  of  the  setting  sun.  The 
Byzantine  towers  stood  boldly  out  like  mighty  senti- 
nels against  the  ruddy,  western  sky.  With  dusk 
Molfetta  began  to  fade  until  it  died  away  in  the 
soft  hues  of  the  evening  skies.  I  was  leaving  Mol- 
fetta destined  to  be  hers  no  more! 

The  Angela  was  bound  for  Fivune,  a  city  which 
of  late  has  acquired  international  fame.  On  the 
way  we  stopped  at  various  ports  either  to  avoid  un- 
favorable weather  or  to  take  on  provisions.  The 
first  place  we  dropped  anchor  at  was  a  natural  cove 
of  unsurpassing  beauty.  A  great  rocky  arm  en- 
closed the  waters  so  completely  as  to  make  the  sea 
without  wholly  invisible.  Surrounding  it  like  a 
crown  was  a  range  of  high  mountains.  On  their 
summit,  the  trees  lifted  their  heads  to  the  breeze, 
while  below  the  waters  were  wholly  tranquil,  save 
for  the  gentle  ripples  made  by  the  fishes  jumping 
here  and  there.  Off  in  the  distance  was  the  only 
sign  of  life:  a  fisherman's  little  hut  on  a  small 
beach.  It  was  one  of  Nature's  beauty  spots,  and 
its  virgin  freshness  and  rugged  grandeur  left  an 
undying  impression  upon  my  boy-soul. 

The  awe-inspiring  phenomenon  of  the  mirages  of 
the  Dalmatian  Coast  left  also  a  never-effaced  im- 
pression. No  childish  dream  could  possibly  paint 
a  more  fairy-like  picture.  The  innumerable  little 
islands  of  that  coast,  with  the  few  trees  rising  on 
their  crests,  and  the  small  fishing  and  merchant 


56   THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

ships  were  now  and  again  lifted  into  the  bosom  of 
the  heavens,  making  dream  scenes  realities.  Our 
little  ship  often  lay  immovable  upon  its  own  re- 
flection, the  sails  hanging  lazily  from  the  masts, 
more  beautiful  than  any  painted  ship  upon  a 
painted  ocean ;  while  by  day  and  by  night  Nature 
unfolded  her  matchless  beauty  about  us  in  simrise 
and  sunset  wonders  and  balmy  weather.  When, 
years  afterward,  I  read  "The  Ancient  Mariner," 
my  mind  instinctively  went  back  to  those  matchless 
scenes  of  the  Dalmatian  Coast,  to  my  first  voyage, 
and  to  the  first  realization  of  the  dreams  of  my 
childhood. 

For  a  year  and  a  half  I  made  frequent  voyages 
back  and  forth  between  Molfetta  and  various  points 
on  the  Adriatic.  During  these  trips  we  touched  at 
all  the  principal  ports  of  Italy  and  Dalmatia ;  Brin- 
disi,  Bari,  Foggia,  Ancona,  Ravenna,  Venice,  Triest, 
Pola,  Fiume,  Zara,  Sebenico,  and  others.  Some  of 
these  spots  are  enshrined  in  natural  grandeur  all- 
surpassing.  The  very  sight  of  them  brought  pro- 
found satisfaction  and  left  lasting  imprints  upon 
the  retina  of  my  mind's  eye.  But  soon  I  had  seen 
"all  the  world"  on  the  Adriatic,  and  my  gaze  began 
to  turn  toward  other  and  wider  horizons.  "For  it's 
'all  day'  with  you  when  you  answer  the  cue"  says 
Robert  Service.  Other  worlds  were  calling,  and  I 
heeded  the  call. 

Meanwhile,  mother,  father  and  dear  grandmother 


AMERICA 


57 


had  all  died.  Some  one  was  unkind  enough  to  say 
that  it  was  because  of  pain,  pain  over  my  "im- 
pertinenza,"  that  they  had  gone.  My  child  eyes 
stared  in  amazement ;  I  wondered  if  this  was  so. 
However,  the  fact  was  that  grandmother  died  of 
age — she  was  over  85 — while  both  father  and 
mother  had  died  in  the  midst  of  a  strenuous  effort 
to  save  their  children  from  a  scarlet  fever  epidemic 
which  swept  over  Molfetta  and  carried  away  many 
of  its  inhabitants.  Our  home  was  broken  up,  the 
girls  soon  afterward  married,  while  the  three  other 
boys  were  taken  over  by  relatives. 

And  now  securing  permission  from  Uncle  Carlo, 
who  had  been  appointed  our  legal  guardian,  I  set 
out  upon  paths  which  led  to  more  distant  lands. 
He  loaned  me  fifty  lire,  and  two  days  after  Christ- 
mas in  1899,  I  started  for  Genoa,  the  leading  sea- 
port of  Italy.  There  I  embarked  on  board  mer- 
chant ships,  mainly  steamers,  and  for  over  a  year 
I  made  voyages  to  different  parts  of  Europe.  We 
went  to  Alexandria,  but  I  do  not  even  remember  how 
the  city  looked.  Of  Greece  I  remember  the  charm  of 
the  JEgean  Islands  and  Athens,  slumbering  in  the 
peace  of  centuries.  Of  Constantinople  I  recall  the 
majesty  of  St.  Sophia,  the  squalor  of  the  sordid 
streets  and  the  enchanting  beauty  of  the  city  of  min- 
arets reflected  in  the  tranquil  waters  of  the  Sea  of 
Marmora.  The  very  name  "the  Black  Sea"  brings 
back  the  memory  of  black,  ugly  clouds  hovering  low 


58    THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

like  vultures  upon  the  darksome  waters.  Of  the 
Danube  I  can  only  remember  its  muddy  color  and  the 
enormous  river  barges  dragged  by  mules  along  the 
shore.  Roumania  brings  back  the  picture  of  an- 
cient villages  and  of  women  loading  the  steamer  with 
enormous  baskets  of  grain  which  they  carried  upon 
their  heads,  aU  the  while  puffing  at  huge  pipes. 
Wales  brings  to  my  ear  the  plaintive  songs  of  the 
Welsh,  while  Edinburgh  brings  to  mind  the  dense 
fogs,  the  ugliness  of  its  down-town  streets  and  my 
first  sight  of  ice  covering  a  body  of  water. 

While  visiting  these  various  European  countries, 
my  eyes  had  often  turned  longingly  toward  the 
west,  to  the  continent  beyond  the  setting  sun,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  great  Atlantic.  Some  day  I 
was  going  to  see  America.  At  last  my  opportunity 
came.  In  Genoa  I  heard  of  a  new  brig,  the  Frarv- 
cesco,  which  was  to  make  her  maiden  voyage  to 
America,  Australia,  the  South  Sea  Islands  and 
thence  through  the  Suez  Canal  back  to  Genoa,  her 
starting  point.  The  voyage  was  to  last  about 
thirty  months.  I  sought  and  secured  a  place  on  her 
crew,  with  the  thought  that  at  the  end  of  this  voy- 
age I  would  return  to  Molfetta  and  settle  down  for 
the  rest  of  my  life.  Destiny,  however,  had  decreed 
otherwise.  On  a  day  not  far-distant,  without  even 
dreaming  of  it,  I  was  to  become  a  part  of  America. 

It  will  doubtless  be  of  interest  to  the  reader 
to  see  the  picture  which  I  had  of  America  as  I 


AMERICA 


59 


turned  my  face  westward.  It  is  generally  sup- 
posed that  immigTants,  as  they  turn  their  steps  to- 
ward America,  have  a  true  idea  of  what  the  country 
is  like,  its  life,  its  institutions,  its  natural  resources 
and  beauty.  How  true  tliis  is  wUl  appear  from  the 
picture  of  America  which  follows.  This  is  all  the 
more  significant  because  I  had  lived  my  childhood  in 
an  immediate  environment  where  education  was  the 
rule.  I  had  also  come  in  contact  with  persons  who 
had  traveled  widely,  particulaily  my  seafaring  uncle, 
and  it  would  seem  that  I  ought  to  have  had  a  true 
mental  picture  of  America. 

Of  course,  like  every  Italian  boy,  I  had  heard 
from  earliest  childhood  of  America,  the  continent 
which  "Colombo,"  one  of  our  countrymen,  had  long 
ago  discovered.  However,  my  idea  of  America  was 
as  misty  as  that  of  the  Old  World  on  the  day  when 
Columbus  returned  from  his  famous  voyage.  Rub- 
bing its  eyes  and  stretching  out  its  arms  as  if 
awakening  from  a  sleep  of  centuries,  it  began  to 
realize  that  a  new  day  liad  dawned  in  the  history 
of  mankind.  We  used  to  sing  a  song;  it  was  about 
thirty  stanzas  long,  and  it  told  all  the  story  of  that 
famous  voyage,  but  it  had  nothing  in  it  about  the 
continent  he  had  found,  or  what  was  on  that  conti- 
nent in  our  day.  Like  every  boy  who  goes  through 
the  third  grade  of  Italian  schools,  I  had  read  the 
story  of  America  in  De  Amici's  famous  book,  "II 
Cuore."    But  while  that  story,  "From  the  Appe- 


60   THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

nines  to  the  Andes"  is  one  of  unexcelled  imaginative 
beauty,  it  gives  little  or  no  details  of  the  country 
beyond  the  setting  sun,  of  its  people,  its  institu- 
tions, its  life  in  general.  Moreover,  that  story 
deals  with  South  America  rather  than  North  Amer- 
ica. 

Now  that  is  one  point  of  interest  in  the  picture 
I  had  of  America  in  my  childhood ;  to  me  there  was 
no  distinction  between  North  and  South  America. 
There  was  but  one  America.  I  had  read  something 
of  Boston  and  New  York,  but  the  words  brought 
only  a  vague  and  indefinite  idea  to  my  mind.  Even 
Montevideo  and  Buenos  Ayres,  of  which  I  had 
heard  much,  were  far  from  definite  and  concrete 
realities.  Two  things  alone  I  seemed  able  to  pic- 
ture; the  vast  stretches  of  virgin  lands  and  the 
great,  winding  rivers.  I  had  read  something  of 
the  Indians,  who  were  very  much  like  the  cannibals 
of  my  childhood  stories.  The  uncle  to  whom  I  have 
already  referred  would  often  recount  stories  of  his 
voyages  to  America,  but  these  presented  vague  pic- 
tures and  were  invariably  connected  with  thrilling 
experiences  with  pirates  which  he  had  had  off  the 
coast  of  that  continent.  Such  persons  as  had  emi- 
grated from  Molfetta  had  usually  gone  to  South 
America,  and  when  they  returned,  they  told  stories  of 
the  money  they  had  made  rather  than  giving  descrip- 
tions of  the  country  and  its  people.  I  remember 
only  one  person  whom  I  ever  heard  say  anything 


AMERICA 


61 


about  the  country  itself ;  a  man  who  had  worked  as 
cook  on  board  a  barge  at  Rio  de  Janeiro.  He  was 
wont  to  wax  eloquent  about  the  beauty  of  the  coun- 
try, the  leisureliness  of  the  people,  the  majesty  of 
great  rivers  and  the  mildness  of  the  climate.  He 
also,  however,  spoke  principally  of  the  money  he 
had  made. 

I  knew  of  only  one  person  who  had  gone  from 
our  small  city  to  North  America.  He  came  to  visit 
Molfetta  when  I  was  a  small  boy,  and  his  visit  left 
certain  distinct  impressions  upon  my  mind.  He  had 
lived  in  America  for  several  years.  From  what  I 
recall,  it  seems  that  he  had  changed  his  name  while 
living  in  America,  and  therefore  his  family  had 
lost  all  trace  of  him,  and  considered  him  dead.  They 
were  friends  of  our  family,  and  when  he  finally 
came  back  for  a  visit,  I  was  much  impressed.  I  re- 
member him  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  to-day.  He 
could  not  speak  our  dialect  any  more.  What  little 
of  the  language  he  spoke  was  the  pure  Italian, 
which  he  had  learned  in  America.  I  recall  also  his 
purple,  showy  necktie,  and  a  stickpin  with  bril- 
liants. What  impressed  me  most  of  all  was  the 
white  collar  which  he  wore.  These  things  were  great 
luxuries  in  our  town,  worn  only  by  the  well-to-do, 
and  not  by  "la  gente,"  or  common  folks,  to  which  he 
belonged. 

Another  close-up  view  of  America  which  I  got 
in  my  childhood  was  that  of  what  I  thought  were 


62   THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

American  sailors  on  board  an  American  steamer, 
which  chanced  to  come  to  Molfetta.  This  was  such 
a  rare  happening  that  of  course  I  learned  of  it,  and 
taking  a  special  leave  of  absence  from  school,  I 
went  to  call  upon  the  honorable  gentlemen,  the 
American  sailors.  For  all  I  know  they  may  have 
been  Chinese  coolies,  but  as  long  as  they  were  on 
board  an  American  steamer,  to  me  they  were  Ameri- 
cans. There  were  several  interesting  and  peculiar 
things  about  these  American  sailors.  For  one 
thing,  they  were  very  paragons  of  filth.  I  liked 
to  hear  them  speak  their  foreign,  and  to  me,  "bar- 
barian" language.  I  can  recall  to-day  their  shouts  as 
they  unloaded  the  coal.  And  most  interesting  of  all 
was  the  sight  of  them  drunk  on  the  streets  of  our  lit- 
tle Molfetta,  where  drunken  persons  were  never  seen. 
They  had  gone  ashore,  and  taking  advantage  of  the 
inexpensiveness  of  our  good  Molfettese  wine,  they 
had  laid  in  a  goodly  provision  of  it,  and  from  the 
way  they  staggered  about  the  streets,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  they  had  stored  away  within  their  bodily 
cellars  slightly  more  than  they  could  carry  well.  We 
boys  followed  them  from  street  to  street,  and  made 
sport  of  them  in  order  to  hear  their  funny  jabbering. 

Another  glimpse  of  America,  strangely  contra- 
dictory to  the  one  I  have  just  related,  came  through 
a  ship  builder  who  lived  in  Molfetta.  This  man 
was  quite  well-to-do,  and  greatly  respected  in  our 
town.    He  had  been  in  America  several  years,  had 


AMERICA 


63 


made  money  and  returned  to  our  city,  where  he 
had  established  a  shipbuilding  business  of  his  own. 
He  was,  however,  considered  one  of  the  queerest 
and  most  extraordinary  members  of  our  little  so- 
ciety, for  the  reason  that  he  did  not  drink  wine  or 
liquors  of  any  kind.  Some  people  had  been  skepti- 
cal about  the  truth  of  this  report,  but  professional 
gossipers  had  made  a  careful  investigation  and  it 
was  now  generally  accepted  that  this  man,  the 
strangest  human  being  in  our  town,  actually  did 
not  drink  wine,  even  the  light  white  wines  for  which 
Molfetta  was  famous.  It  was  understood  that  he 
had  acquired  this  freakish  habit  in  America.  Of 
course,  in  my  childhood  days  I  did  not  see  the  con- 
nection between  drunkenness  of  the  American  sailors 
on  the  one  hand  and  the  total  abstinence  of  this  man 
from  Hquors  on  the  other. 

Still  another  view  of  America  had  come  to  me 
through  the  eyes  of  a  blind  man.  In  my  boyhood, 
he  was  a  man  of  about  fifty  years  of  age;  stone 
blind,  and  led  about  the  streets  by  a  small  boy.  The 
story  was  that  he  had  been  in  America,  where  he 
had  worked  "in  campagna" — in  the  country — and 
that  the  climate  was  so  hot  that  he  had  lost  his  eye- 
sight by  sun-stroke.  He  had  been  back  in  Molfetta 
for  some  twenty  years.  Apparently  he  had  made 
some  money  before  his  return,  for  he  did  not  seem 
to  be  a  mendicant  like  most  of  the  blind  people  of 
the  town.     To  me  the  most  striking  thing  about 


64    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


this  man  was  that  he  was  the  only  person  in 
Molfetta  who  could  speak  English,  and  he  always 
acted  as  interpreter  when  English  or  American  ves- 
sels chanced  to  come  to  the  city.  It  was  this  man 
who  first  awakened  in  me  a  desire  to  learn  the  Eng- 
lish language.  I  used  to  think  that  if  I  could  learn 
English  and  become  an  "interrupter"  myself,  I 
would  be  in  the  height  of  my  glory. 

From  some  source  I  got  the  idea  that  America 
was  a  continent  of  great  forests,  and  that  the  trees 
when  cut  grew  again,  not  new  trees,  but  that  they 
grew  up  again  from  the  stumps,  and  that  by  this 
method  of  growth  America  was  always  covered  with 
great  stretches  of  forests. 

Now  it  does  not  require  a  great  artist  nor  a 
great  stretch  of  the  imagination  to  piece  together 
these  various  fragments  and  create  a  picture  of 
America  as  I  saw  it  when  I  turned  my  steps  west- 
ward ;  it  was  a  great  country,  vast  in  its  propor- 
tions, vaguely  beautiful,  covered  with  forests,  leis- 
urely-winding rivers  and  gi*eat  stretches  of  farm 
lands.  There  were  some  large  cities  like  Montevi- 
deo or  Boston,  a  little  larger  perhaps  than  Genoa, 
or  Naples,  and  all  belonging  to  the  same  country.  It 
was  so  hot  that  persons  working  in  the  fields  became 
blind  from  sunstroke.  In  that  country  lived  many 
pirates  who  attacked  passing  ships ;  dirty  drunken 
sailors  who  spoke  a  barbarian  tongue;  the  Indians, 
who  were  a  sort  of  wild  creatures  on  the  order  of 


AMERICA 


65 


cannibals.  People  from  Molfetta  went  there  and 
made  much  money.  Some  of  them  acquired  strange 
habits,  like  not  drinking  wine  or  not  speaking  our 
dialect  any  more,  wearing  white  collars  and  purple 
neckties  when  they  belonged  to  the  "gente." 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  that  this  is  the  mental 
picture  which  all  Italians  have  as  they  turn  their 
faces  toward  America.  Far  be  it  from  the  reader  to 
take  it  as  seriously  as  a  certain  popular  writer  re- 
cently did  when  he  suggested  that,  because  Italians 
have  such  a  picture  as  this  of  America,  they  should 
be  barred  from  entering  this  country.  I  only  give  it 
as  my  picture  of  America.  I  knew  nothing  of  its 
people,  its  government,  its  institutions,  its  vast- 
ness  and  greatness.  Soon,  however,  I  was  to  be  en- 
riched and  enlightened  in  ways  I  had  not  dreamed. 
For  what  is  true  of  America  is  true  of  all  coun- 
tries ;  no  far-off  glimpse  can  give  a  correct  pic- 
ture of  their  peoples  or  institutions,  and  only  as  a 
person  learns  to  know  them  intimately  is  he  able 
to  measure  them  in  terms  of  real  values. 


IN  THE  AMERICAN  STORM 


Not  that  they  starve,  but  starve  so  dreamlessly, 
Not  that  they  sow,  but  that  they  seldom  reap. 
Not  that  they  serve,  but  have  no  gods  to  serve. 
Not  that  they  die,  but  that  tiiey  die  like  sheep. 

Vachel  Lmdtaiy. 


CHAPTER  IV 


IN  THE  AMERICAN  STORM 

THE  Francesco  put  out  to  sea  from  Trapani, 
Sicily,  on  May  3,  1902,  and  a  week  or  so  later 
passed  the  Pillars  of  Hercules.  Then  she 
plunged  into  the  wake  of  the  trade  winds  and  for 
about  three  weeks  she  sailed  majestically  before  them 
like  a  gull,  stirring  not  a  sail  all  the  while.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  period  of  varying  weather,  which  in  turn  was 
succeeded  by  a  few  days  when  the  ocean  was  breath- 
less and  motionless.  Frequently  we  could  see  whole 
schools  of  dolphins  as  they  came  to  the  surface, 
or  monster  whales  spurting  pillars  of  water  into  the 
air,  a  sight  especially  beautiful  on  calm  moonlit 
nights. 

The  little  brig  had  reached  a  distance  of  about 
three  hundred  miles  from  the  coast  of  North  Amer- 
ica, when  one  day  the  very  weight  of  heaven  seemed 
to  be  pressing  down  upon  her.  The  clouds  were 
yellow,  sullen  and  angry-looking;  the  air  was 
breathless  with  pent-up  power.  As  the  day  advanced 
the  barometer  went  lower  and  lower,  and  with  the 
approach  of  evening  this  invisible,  uncontrollable 

169] 


70    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

power  seemed  to  be  seizing  the  little  ship  as  if  with 
mighty  claws.  The  sea  rumbled  beneath  her,  the 
thick  masses  of  clouds  pressed  closer  upon  her,  the 
waters  became  deep-dyed  black.  At  five-thirty  we 
heard  the  call:  "All  hands  on  deck,"  and  a  few 
moments  later:  "All  sails  in  but  lower-topsail  and 
jib."  CHmbing  like  monkeys  after  coconuts,  we 
made  short  work  of  the  task.  We  knew,  however, 
that  something  more  strenuous  was  coming.  At 
six,  just  as  the  four  bells  were  striking,  the  very 
bowels  of  sea  and  sky  opened  upon  us  with  amazing 
suddenness  and  force.  The  seasoned  Tuscan  sailor, 
whose  every  word  was  wont  to  be  an  oath,  struck 
with  sudden  fear,  fell  upon  his  knees  by  the  bulwark 
and  began  to  sa}^  his  prayers.  Some  one  kicked 
him  as  you  would  a  dog.  The  moment  the  terrific 
gale  struck  the  ship  it  tore  the  heavy  lower-top- 
sail and  flapped  it  madly  in  the  air  as  if  it  were  a 
piece  of  tissue  paper.  The  brave  little  ship  bent 
pitifully  beneath  the  gale;  its  mainroyalmast  was 
broken  like  a  reed;  its  cargo  was  shifted  to  one  side 
like  a  handful  of  pebbles,  and  its  hull  sprung  a  leak. 
The  blast  was  over  in  an  hour  or  so,  but  all  hands 
worked  steadily  for  three  days  and  nights  to  shift 
the  cargo  back  in  place,  while  four  men  were  kept 
at  the  hand-pump  night  and  day  until  we  reached 
shore  a  week  or  more  later. 

Some  years  afterward  an  American  friend,  reflect- 
ing upon  this  incident  as  I  had  described  it  to  him. 


IN   THE   AMERICAN    STORM  71 

remarked  "That  storm  was  indeed  prophetic  of 
your  early  experiences  in  America,  was  it  not?'*  It 
may  be  that  it  was,  and  perhaps  we  shall  soon  dis- 
cover the  analogy  as  it  appeared  in  my  friend's 
mind. 

On  July  3rd,  1902,  after  a  voyage  of  sixty-one 
day,  the  Framcesco  anchored  in  Boston  Harbor. 
As  the  next  day  was  the  "Fourth,"  the  city  was 
already  decked  in  festal  array.  The  captain  has- 
tened to  register  his  arrival.  A  boat  was  lowered, 
and  I  was  ordered  to  take  him  ashore;  thus  it  was 
my  good  fortune  to  be  the  first  to  touch  land. 
"America !"    I  whispered  to  myself  as  I  did  so. 

In  a  day  or  two  the  ship  was  towed  to  a  pier 
in  Charlestown,  where  it  lay  until  its  cargo  of 
salt  was  unloaded  and  a  cargo  of  lumber  consigned 
to  Montevideo  was  put  on  board  of  her. 

In  the  meantime  a  desire  had  arisen  within  me  to 
return  home.  There  were  several  reasons  for  this. 
In  the  first  place,  it  was  becoming  increasingly  un- 
pleasant for  me  to  remain  in  the  midst  of  that  crew. 
It  chanced  that  I  was  the  only  person  on  board  hail- 
ing from  southern  Italy;  the  rest  of  the  men  were 
mostly  Genoese,  with  one  or  two  Tuscans.  Now,  the 
feeling  of  sectional  provincialism  between  north  and 
south  Italy  is  still  so  strong,  and  the  North 
always  assumes  such  airs  of  superiority,  that  I  had 
become  the  butt  of  every  joke  and  the  scapegoat 
of  every  occasion.    This  was  becoming  more  and 


72    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

more  unbearable,  and  as  time  went  on  I  decided  that 
my  self-respect  could  not  and  would  not  stand  it. 
To  this  was  added  the  fact  that  the  captain  was 
one  of  those  creatures  who  seem  to  be  more  brute 
than  man,  especially  in  dealing  with  youth.  During 
that  voyage  he  had  more  than  once  beaten  me  in  a 
way  that  would  have  made  the  hardest  punishments 
of  my  father  blush.  He  was  so  cruel  and  unreason- 
able that  before  he  left  Boston  several  of  the  crew, 
including  the  first  mate,  left  him. 

In  the  face  of  these  circumstances  I  began  to 
think  that  if  the  captain  would  only  let  me  go,  I 
would  return  home.  Accordingly,  one  day  I  went 
to  him  and  very  respectfully  told  him  of  my  inten- 
tion to  return  to  Italy  immediately  if  he  would  per- 
mit me,  and  would  pay  me  the  money  which  was 
due  me.  The  stem,  sea-hardened  sailor  brushed  me 
aside  without  even  an  answer.  A  day  or  so  later  I 
again  went  to  him;  this  time  he  drove  me  from  his 
presence  with  a  sharp  kick.  Whatever  manhood 
there  ever  was  in  my  being  rose  up  and  stood  erect 
within  me;  with  a  determination  as  quick  and  as 
sharp  as  his  kick  had  been,  I  decided  I  would  now 
go  at  any  cost. 

I  began  to  look  about  for  ways  and  means  to 
carry  out  my  determination.  On  the  pier  was  an 
elderly  watchman,  an  Italian  by  birth,  who  had 
been  in  America  for  several  years.  To  him  I  con- 
fided my  difficulties.    He  was  a  sane  and  conserv- 


IN   THE   AMERICAN  STORM 


73 


ative  man,  cautious  in  giving  advice.  My  desire  was 
to  find  a  ship  which  was  returning  to  some  Euro- 
pean port.  He  did  not  know  of  any,  but  one  even- 
ing he  suggested  that  if  worse  came  to  worst,  I 
could  do  some  kind  of  work  for  a  few  days  and 
thereby  earn  enough  money  to  buy  a  third-class 
passage  back  to  Naples,  which  at  that  time  cost 
only  fifty  or  sixty  dollars.  This  gave  me  a  new 
idea.  I  decided  to  take  my  destiny  in  my  own 
hands  and  in  some  way  find  my  way  back  to 
Italy.  Two  months  had  already  passed  since  our 
arrival  in  Boston,  and  almost  any  day  now  the  ves- 
sel would  take  to  sea.  If  I  were  to  act  it  must  be 
now  or  never.  I  had  been  ashore  twice  and  had 
become  acquainted  with  a  barber  near  the  pier.  To 
him  I  also  confided  my  troubles,  and  he  offered  to 
keep  my  few  belongings  for  me,  should  I  finally  de- 
cide to  leave  the  ship. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  September  8,  1902,  when 
the  turmoil  of  the  street  traffic  was  subsiding,  and 
the  silence  of  the  night  was  slowly  creeping  over 
the  city,  I  took  my  sea  chest,  my  sailor  bag  and 
all  I  had  and  set  foot  on  American  soil.  I  was  in 
America.  Of  immigration  laws  I  had  not  even  a 
knowledge  of  their  existence;  of  the  English  lan- 
guage I  knew  not  a  word ;  of  friends  I  had  none 
in  Boston  or  elsewhere  in  America  to  whom  I  might 
turn  for  counsel  or  help.  I  had  exactly  fifty  cents 
remaining  out  of  a  dollar  which  the  captain  had 


74    THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


finally  seen  fit  to  give  me.  But  as  I  was  soon  to 
earn  money  and  return  to  Molfetta,  I  felt  no  concern. 

My  Charlestowii  barber  friend  took  me  in  that 
first  night  with  the  distinct  understanding  that  I 
could  stay  only  one  night.  So  the  next  morning 
bright  and  early,  leaAdng  all  my  belongings  with  the 
barber,  I  started  out  in  search  of  a  job.  I  roamed 
about  the  streets,  not  knowing  where  or  to  whom  to 
turn.  That  day  and  the  next  fovir  days  I  had  one 
loaf  of  bread  each  day  for  food  and  at  night,  not 
having  money  with  which  to  purchase  shelter,  I 
stayed  on  the  recreation  pier  on  Commercial  Street. 
One  night,  very  weary  and  lonely,  I  lay  upon  a 
bench  and  soon  dozed  off  into  a  light  sleep.  The 
next  thing  I  knew  I  cried  out  in  bitter  pain  and 
fright.  A  policeman  had  stolen  up  to  me  very 
quietly  and  with  his  club  had  dealt  me  a  heavy  blow 
upon  the  soles  of  my  feet.  He  drove  me  away,  and 
I  think  I  cried ;  I  cried  my  first  American  cry.  What 
became  of  me  that  night  I  cannot  say.  And  the 
next  day  and  the  next.  ...  I  just  roamed  aim- 
lessly about  the  streets,  between  the  Public  Gar- 
den with  its  flowers  and  the  water-side,  where  I 
watched  the  children  at  play,  even  as  I  had  played 
at  the  water's  brink  in  old  Molfetta. 

Those  first  five  days  in  America  have  left  an 
impression  upon  my  mind  which  can  never  be  erased 
with  the  years,  and  which  gives  me  a  most  profound 
sense  of  sympathy  for  immigrants  as  they  arrive. 


IN   THE   AMERICAN  STORM 


75 


On  the  fifth  day,  by  mere  chance,  I  ran  across 
a  French  sailor  on  the  recreation  pier.  We  imme- 
diately became  friends.  His  name  was  Louis.  Just 
to  look  at  Louis  would  make  you  laugh.  He  was 
over  six  feet  tall,  lank,  queer-shaped,  freckle-faced, 
with  small  eyes  and  a  crooked  nose.  I  have  some- 
times thought  that  perhaps  he  was  the  "missing 
link"  for  which  the  scientist  has  been  looking.  Louis 
could  not  speak  Italian ;  he  had  a  smattering  of 
what  he  called  "itahen,"  but  I  could  not  see  it  his 
way.  On  the  other  hand,  I  kept  imposing  upon  his 
good  nature  by  giving  a  nasal  twang  to  Italian 
words  and  insisting  on  calling  it  "francese."  We 
had  much  merriment.  Two  facts,  however,  made 
possible  a  mutual  understanding.  Both  had  been 
sailors  and  had  traveled  over  very  much  the  same 
world ;  this  made  a  bond  between  us.  Then  too,  we 
had  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  "esperanto,"  a 
strange  capacity  for  gesticulation  and  facial  con- 
tortion, which  was  always  our  last  "hope"  in  making 
each  other  understand. 

Not  far  from  the  recreation  pier  on  which  we 
met  is  located  the  Italian  colony  of  "North  End," 
Boston.  To  this  Louis  and  I  made  our  way,  and 
to  an  Italian  boarding  house.  How  we  happened  to 
find  it  and  to  get  in  I  do  not  now  recall.  It  was  a 
"three-room  apartment"  and  the  landlady  informed 
us  that  she  was  already  "full,"  but  since  we  had  no 
place  to  go,  she  would  take  us  in.   Added  to  the  host 


76    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

that  was  already  gathered  there,  our  coming  made 
fourteen  people.  At  night  the  floor  of  the  kitchen 
and  the  dining  table  were  turned  into  beds.  Louis 
and  I  were  put  to  sleep  in  one  of  the  beds  with  two 
other  men,  two  facing  north  and  two  south.  As 
I  had  slept  aE  my  life  in  a  bed  or  bunk  by  myself 
this  quadrupling  did  not  appeal  to  me  especially. 
But  we  could  not  complain.  We  had  been  taken 
in  on  trust,  and  the  filth,  the  smells  and  the  crowd- 
ing together  were  a  part  of  the  trust. 

We  began  to  make  inquiries  about  jobs  and  were 
promptly  informed  that  there  was  plenty  of  work 
at  "pick  and  shovel."  We  were  also  given  to  under- 
stand by  our  fellow-boarders  that  "pick  and  shovel" 
was  practically  the  only  work  available  to  Italians. 
Now  these  were  the  first  two  English  words  I  had 
heard  and  they  possessed  great  charm.  Moreover, 
if  I  were  to  earn  money  to  return  home  and  this 
was  the  only  work  available  for  Italians,  they  were 
very  weighty  words  for  me,  and  I  must  master  them 
as  soon  and  as  well  as  possible  and  then  set  out  to 
find  their  hidden  meaning.  I  practised  for  a  day 
or  two  until  I  could  say  "peek"  and  "shuvle"  to 
perfection.  Then  I  asked  a  fellow-boarder  to  take 
me  to  see  what  the  work  was  like.  He  did.  He  led 
me  to  Washington  Street,  not  far  from  the  colony, 
where  some  excavation  work  was  going  on,  and 
there  I  did  see,  with  my  own  eyes,  what  the  "peek" 
and  "shuvle"  were  about.   My  heart  sank  within  me, 


IN   THE   AMERICAN  STORM 


77 


for  I  had  thought  it  some  form  of  office  work;  but 
I  was  game  and  since  this  was  the  only  work  avail- 
able for  Italians,  and  since  I  must  have  money  to 
return  home,  I  would  take  it  up.  After  all,  it  was 
only  a  means  to  an  end,  and  would  last  but  a  few 
days. 

It  may  be  in  place  here  to  say  a  word  relative  to 
the  reason  why  this  idea  was  prevalent  among  Ital- 
ians at  the  time,  and  why  so  many  Italians  on  com- 
ing to  America  find  their  way  to  what  I  had  called 
"peek  and  shuvle."  It  is  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge,  at  least  among  students  of  immigration, 
that  a  very  large  percentage  of  Italian  immigrants 
were  "contadini"  or  farm  laborers  in  Italy.  Ameri- 
can people  often  ask  the  question,  "Why  do  they  not 
go  to  the  farms  in  this  country?"  This  query  is 
based  upon  the  idea  that  the  "contadini"  were  farm- 
ers in  the  sense  in  which  we  apply  that  word  to  the 
American  farmer.  The  facts  in  the  case  are  that 
the  "contadini"  were  not  farmers  in  that  sense  at 
all,  but  simply  farm-laborers,  more  nearly  serfs, 
working  on  landed  estates  and  seldom  owning  their 
own  land.  Moreover,  they  are  not  in  any  way  ac- 
quainted with  the  implements  of  modem  American 
farming.  Their  farming  tools  consisted  generally 
of  a  "zappa,"  a  sort  of  wide  mattock;  an  ax  and 
the  wooden  plow  of  biblical  times.  When  they  come 
to  America,  the  work  which  comes  nearest  to  that 
which  they  did  in  Italy  is  not  farming,  or  even  farm 


78 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


labor,  but  excavation  work.  This  fact,  together 
with  the  isolation  which  inevitably  would  be  theirs  on 
an  American  farm,  explains,  in  a  large  measure, 
why  so  few  Italians  go  to  the  farm  and  why 
so  many  go  into  excavation  work.  There  is  another 
factor  to  be  considered,  and  that  is  that  the  "pa- 
drone" perhaps  makes  a  greater  per  capita  per- 
centage in  connection  with  securing  and  managing 
workers  for  construction  purposes  than  in  any  other 
line,  and  therefore  he  becomes  a  walking  delegate 
about  the  streets  of  ItaUan  colonies  spreading  the 
word  that  only  "peek  and  shuvle"  is  available. 

Now,  though  Louis  and  I  had  never  done  such 
work,  because  we  were  Italians  we  must  needs  adapt 
ourselves  to  it  and  go  to  work  with  "peek  and 
shuvle."  (I  should  have  stated  that  Louis,  desiring 
to  be  like  the  Romans  while  living  with  them,  for  the 
time  being  passed  for  an  Italian.) 

So  we  went  out  to  hunt  our  first  iob  in  America. 
For  several  mornings  Louis  and  I  went  to  North 
Square,  where  there  were  generally  a  large  nvunber 
of  men  loitering  in  groups  discussing  all  kinds  of 
subjects,  particularly  the  labor  market.  One  morn- 
ing we  were  standing  in  front  of  one  of  those  in- 
fernal institutions  which  in  America  are  permitted 
to  bear  the  name  of  "immigrant  banks,"  when  we 
saw  a  fat  man  coming  toward  us.  "Buon  giorno, 
padrone,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "Padrone?"  said  I 
to  myself.     Now  the  word  "padrone"  in  Italy  is 


IN   THE   AMERICAN  STORM 


79 


applied  to  a  proprietor,  g;enerally  a  respectable 
man,  at  least  one  whose  dress  and  appearance  dis- 
tinguish him  as  a  man  of  means.  This  man  not  only 
showed  no  signs  of  good  breeding  in  his  face,  but 
he  was  unshaven  and  dirty  and  his  clothes  were 
shabby.  I  could  not  quite  understand  how  he  could 
be  called  "padrone."  However,  I  said  nothing, 
first  because  I  wanted  to  get  back  home,  and  second 
because  I  wanted  to  be  polite  when  I  was  in  Ameri- 
can society ! 

The  "padrone"  came  up  to  our  group  and  began 
to  wax  eloquent  and  to  gesticulate  (both  in  Sicilian 
dialect)  about  the  advantages  of  a  certain  job.  I 
remember  very  clearly  the  points  which  he  empha- 
sized: "It  is  not  very  far,  only  twelve  miles  from 
Boston.  For  a  few  cents  you  can  come  back  any 
time  you  wish,  to  see  'i  parenti  e  gli  amici,'  your 
relatives  and  friends.  The  company  has  a  'shantee' 
in  which  you  can  sleep,  and  a  'storo'  where  you  can 
buy  your  'grosserie'  all  very  cheap,  'Buona  paga*," 
he  continued  "(Good  pay),  $1.25  per  day,  and  you 
only  have  to  pay  me  fifty  cents  a  week  for  having 
gotten  you  this  'gooda  jobba.'  I  only  do  it  to 
help  you  and  because  you  are  my  countrymen.  If 
you  come  back  here  at  six  o'clock  to-night  with  your 
bundles,  I  myself  will  take  you  out." 

The  magnanimity  of  this  man  impressed  Louis 
and  me  very  profoundly ;  we  looked  at  each  other 
and  said,  "Wonderful !"    We  decided  we  would  go ; 


80    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

so  at  the  appointed  hour  we  returned  to  the  very 
spot.  About  twenty  men  finally  feathered  there  and 
we  were  led  to  North  Station.  There  we  took  a 
train  to  some  suburban  place,  the  name  of  which  I 
have  never  been  able  to  learn.  On  reaching  our 
destination  we  were  taken  to  the  "shantee*'  where 
we  were  introduced  to  two  long  open  bunks  filled 
with  straw.  These  were  to  be  our  beds.  The 
"storo"  of  which  we  had  been  told  was  at  one  end 
of  the  shanty.  The  next  morning  we  were  taken 
out  to  work.  It  was  a  sultry  autumn  day.  The 
"peek"  seemed  to  grow  heavier  at  every  stroke  and 
the  "shuvle"  wider  and  larger  in  its  capacity  to 
hold  the  gravel.  The  second  day  was  no  better 
than  the  first,  and  the  third  was  worse  than  the 
second.  The  work  was  heavy  and  monotonous  to 
Louis  and  myself  especially,  who  had  never  been 
"contadini"  like  the  rest.  The  "padrone"  whose 
magnanimity  had  so  stirred  us  was  little  better  than 
a  brute.  We  began  to  do  some  simple  figuring  and 
discovered  that  when  we  had  paid  for  our  groceries 
at  the  "storo,"  for  the  privilege  of  sleeping  in  the 
shanty,  and  the  fifty  cents  to  the  "padrone"  for 
having  been  so  condescending  as  to  employ  us,  we 
would  have  nothing  left  but  sore  arms  and  backs.  So 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Louis  and  I  held 
a  solemn  conclave  and  decided  to  part  company 
with  "peek  and  shuvle," — for  ever.  We  left,  without 
receiving  a  cent  of  pay,  of  course. 


IN   THE   AMERICAN    STORM  81 

Going  across  country  on  foot  we  came  to  a  small 
manufacturing  village.  We  decided  to  try  our  luck 
at  the  factory,  which  proved  to  be  a  woolen  mill, 
and  found  employment.  Our  work  was  sorting  old 
rags  and  carrying  them  in  wheelbarrows  into  a 
hot  oven,  in  which  the  air  was  almost  suffocating. 
Every  time  a  person  went  in  it  he  was  obliged  to 
run  out  as  quickly  as  possible,  for  the  heat  was  un- 
bearable. Unfortunately  for  us,  the  crew  was  com- 
posed almost  entirely  of  Russians,  who  hated  us 
from  the  first  day,  and  called  us  "dagoes.'*  I  had 
never  heard  the  word  before ;  I  asked  Louis  if  he  knew 
its  meaning,  but  he  did  not.  In  going  in  and  out 
of  the  oven  the  Russians  would  crowd  against  us 
and  make  it  hard  for  us  to  pass.  One  morning  as 
I  was  coming  out,  four  of  the  men  hedged  me  in. 
I  thought  I  would  suffocate.  I  finally  succeeded  in 
pushing  out,  my  hand  having  been  cut  in  the  rush 
of  the  wheelbarrows. 

The  superintendent  of  the  factory  had  observed 
the  whole  incident.  He  was  a  very  kindly  man. 
From  his  light  complexion  I  think  he  was  a  Swede. 
He  came  to  my  rescue,  reprimanded  the  Russians, 
and  led  me  to  his  office,  where  he  bandaged  my 
hand.  Then  he  called  Louis  and  explained  the  sit- 
uation to  us.  The  Russians  looked  upon  us  as  in- 
truders and  were  determined  not  to  work  side  by  side 
with  "the  foreigners,"  but  to  drive  them  out  of  the 
factory.    Therefore,  much  as  he  regretted  it,  the 


82    THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

superintendent  was  obliged  to  ask  us  to  leave,  since 
there  were  only  two  of  us,  as  against  the  large  num- 
ber of  Russians  who  made  up  his  unskilled  crew. 

So  we  left.  My  bandaged  hand  hurt  me,  but  my 
lieart  hurt  more.  This  kind  of  work  was  hard  and 
humiliating  enough,  but  what  went  deeper  than  all 
else  was  the  first  realization  that  because  of  race 
I  was  being  put  on  the  road.  And  often  since  that 
day  have  I  felt  the  cutting  thrusts  of  race  preju- 
dice. They  have  been  dealt  by  older  immigrants, 
who  are  known  as  "Americans,"  as  well  as  by  more 
recent  comers.  All  have  been  equally  heart-rending 
and  head-bending.  I  hold  no  grudge  against  any 
one :  I  realize  that  it  is  one  of  the  attendant  cir- 
cumstances of  our  present  nationalistic  attitude  the 
world  over,  and  yet  it  is  none  the  less  saddening 
to  the  human  heart.  I  have  seen  prejudice,  like  an 
evil  shadow,  everywhere.  It  lurks  at  every  comer, 
on  every  street  and  in  every  mart.  I  have  seen  it 
in  the  tram  and  on  the  train ;  I  have  felt  its  dreaded 
power  in  school  and  college,  in  clubs  and  churches. 
It  is  an  ever-present  evil  spirit,  felt  though  unseen, 
wounding  hearts,  cutting  souls.  It  passes  on  its 
poison  like  a  serpent  from  generation  to  generation, 
and  he  who  would  see  the  fusion  of  the  various  ele- 
ments into  a  truly  American  type  must  ever  take  into 
cognizance  its  presence  in  the  hearts  of  some  human 
beings. 

We  had  to  hunt  another  job.    We  returned  to 


IN   THE   AMERICAN  STORM 


83 


Boston  still  penniless  and  to  the  good  graces  of  the 
"padrona"  of  the  filthy  boarding-house.  Louis  now 
spent  a  penny  for  an  Italian  newspaper  and  looked 
over  the  "want  ads."  He  saw  what  seemed  to  be 
a  good  prospect  for  a  job  and  we  decided  to  apply 
for  it.  If  you  walk  down  lower  Washington  Street 
in  Boston,  toward  North  Station,  facing  the  Italian 
colony,  near  Hanover  Street  you  can  see,  even  now,  a 
large  sign,  "Stobhom  Employment  Agency."  It  is  a 
notorious  institution,  the  function  of  which  is  to 
catch  men  and  send  them  to  a  company  in  Bangor, 
from  which  place  the}'  are  sent  to  the  various  camps 
in  the  woods  of  Maine. 

We  called  upon  said  "honorable"  agency  and 
were  told  that  they  could  supply  us  with  work. 
"It  is  out  in  the  country,  in  the  woods  of  Maine. 
Wages  $30  per  month,  board  and  room.  Good, 
healthy  job."  It  sounded  too  good  to  let  go,  so 
we  accepted  the  offer.  We  were  told  to  report  that 
night  at  seven  o'clock  and  we  would  be  directed  to 
our  work.  These  night  meetings  seem  to  be  quite 
popular  with  such  agencies !  Now,  I  knew  what  the 
country  was  like,  but  I  had  no  idea  what  "woods" 
meant,  and  with  the  best  of  Louis'  wretched  Ital- 
ian, I  couldn't  quite  get  it  through  my  head.  More- 
over, Maine  might  be  anywhere  from  North  Boston 
to  California  for  all  I  knew.  However,  we  decided 
to  try  it.  At  $30  per  month  I  would  only  need  to 
work  two  months  at  most;  then  back  home  for  me! 


84    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

We  reported  at  seven  o'clock  according  to  in- 
structions. A  crowd  of  men  jammed  the  office,  the 
stairway,  and  loitered  on  the  sidewalk — a  whole  reg- 
iment, aU  properly  equipped  with  their  personal  be- 
longings. I  had  my  sea-chest  and  small  sailor  bag 
which  Louis  helped  me  to  carry.  At  about  nine 
o'clock  the  exodus  began.  We  were  led  to  North 
Station  and  huddled  together  three  deep  in  one 
car.  The  train  soon  pulled  out  and  I  went  to 
"bed,"  which  consisted  of  the  arm  of  a  seat.  The 
filth,  the  smoke,  the  sights  of  that  memorable  trip 
come  back  to  me  as  I  write  by  the  midnight  candle. 
We  traveled  all  that  night  and  the  next  day,  with 
nothing  to  eat  except  what  little  food  each  man  had 
brought  with  him.  At  two  o'clock  the  next  after- 
noon we  reached  our  destination.  The  station  was 
of  the  kind  often  seen  in  the  unsettled  regions  of 
America — a  small  shack  put  up  by  the  side  of  the 
railroad  tracks,  where  perhaps  a  hunter  unloaded 
his  pack  once;  properly  propped  up,  lest  the  winds 
some  night  should  steal  it  away;  with  a  sign  placed 
upon  it,  thus  giving  it  the  dignified  name  of  "sta- 
tion."   The  name  of  tliis  station  was  Norcross. 

The  starving  multitude  emerged  from  the  "spe- 
cial car"  on  short  notice.  We  followed  the  "boss" 
to  a  small  steamer  about  thirty-five  feet  long.  Or- 
dinarily it  would  not  have  carried  over  fifty  people, 
but  it  took  practically  all  of  us.  In  spite  of  my 
sea-loving  instincts,  my  heart  sank  within  me.  But 


IN   THE   AMERICAN   STORM  85 

as  we  were  promised  food  as  soon  as  we  had  crossed 
the  lake,  Louis  and  I  pushed  our  way  in,  my  chest 
and  bag  dragging  behind.  It  was  dark  by  the 
time  we  reached  the  upper  end  of  one  of  the  Twin 
Lakes.  We  landed  in  the  heart  of  a  solitary  forest. 
I  knew  then  what  a  "woods"  was.  As  soon  as  we 
were  aU  on  "terra  foresta"  we  smelled  food,  and 
then  and  there  I  had  my  first  taste  of  pork  and 
beans,  molasses  cookies  and  coffee  and  "cream." 
Soon  after  eating  we  "turned  in,"  with  the  starry 
heavens  above  us  and  pine  needles  pricking  beneath, 
we  rested  our  weary  bodies. 

The  next  morning  we  began  our  "boring  in"  proc- 
ess. The  opening  up  of  a  new  lumbering  camp 
generally  foUows  on  this  wise:  First,  the  land  is 
surveyed;  main  and  side  roads  are  opened;  bridges 
are  built  over  brooks  and  marshy  places ;  stumps 
are  blown  up ;  wayside  houses  are  erected  for  pro- 
visions and  horses,  and  a  number  of  other  prelimi- 
nary things  are  done  before  the  final  camp  is  set 
up.  We  were  set  to  perform  these  preliminary 
tasks. 

I  was  given  an  ax  and  a  whetstone.  As  I  was 
a  seaman  and  had  never  wielded  such  weapons  be- 
fore, at  first  I  was  at  sea  to  know  what  to  do  with 
them.  But  imitating  others,  I  tried  my  hand  at 
it,  but  soon  found  my  ax  handle-less.  I  seemed  to 
have  the  knack  of  hitting  the  tree  once  and  only 
once  in  the  same  place.    No  one  dared  work  with- 


86    THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

in  a  radius  of  twenty  yards  of  me  for  fear  of  losing 
his  life.  The  boss,  who  was  a  Scandinavian,  was 
very  patient  and  kind,  and  seein^r  my  lack  of  skiU 
at  chopping  trees,  put  me  to  work  dragging 
small  logs  into  the  paths  for  the  men  who  were 
building  bridges.  But  I  was  equally  as  untrained 
in  the  art  of  being  a  mule  as  I  was  unskilled  in 
wielding  an  ax.  It  strained  my  back  and  I 
"kicked."  At  last  I  was  placed  at  "fetching"  water 
for  the  lumbermen,  thirsty  creatures  that  they 
were,  who  took  one  drink  of  water  to  every  two 
strokes  of  the  ax.  So  even  "fetching  water"  was 
no  mean  task. 

One  day  while  hunting  for  a  new  brook  I  had  an 
awful  fright.  I  heard  the  breaking  of  boughs  and 
saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  a  wild  animal.  As  a  child, 
my  family  used  to  frighten  me  into  obedience  by 
saying,  "A  wild  beast  will  get  you."  Now  all  my 
fear  came  back  and  a  chill  of  terror  seized  me. 
Using  my  shinning  ability  to  its  nth  power,  on  very 
short  notice  I  was  up  a  tree  and  there  they  found 
me  at  night.  The  bucket  at  the  foot  of  the  tree 
was  the  only  sign  of  my  whereabouts.  That  same 
night  I  lost  a  black-handled  pocket  knife,  an  heir- 
loom, belonging  originally  to  my  maternal  grand- 
father, who  was  drowned  at  sea.  As  something 
very  mysterious  happened  later  in  connection  with 
this  knife,  it  will  be  of  interest  to  remember  it. 

We  were  nine  days  in  building  bridges  and  open- 


IN   THE    AMERICAN  STOBM 


87 


ing  roads  before  we  reached  the  location  of  our 
permanent  camp.  Our  food  was  changed  daily  from 
pork  and  beans,  molasses  cookies  and  coflFee  and 
"cream" — to  coffee  and  "cream,"  molasses  cookies 
and  pork  and  beans,  with  some  pea  soup  added  for 
good  measure. 

In  the  meantime,  I  had  begun  to  have  some  mighty 
strong  convictions  that  Louis  and  I  had  better 
emerge  from  tliis  existence.  So  we  held  a  secret 
Italo-French  diplomatic  conference  and  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  ninth  day  we  packed  up  our  belongings 
and  left  the  camp.    Of  course,  we  drew  no  pay. 

We  traveled  all  night  and  most  of  the  next  day 
before  we  reached  the  "wayside  house"  by  the  lake, 
where  we  had  first  landed.  The  next  momine'  the 
little  steamer  which  had  brought  us  to  the  spot 
came  up  and  we  requested  the  captain  to  take 
us  across.  He  flatly  refused,  saying  that  we  had 
come  there  to  work,  not  to  go  back ;  and  steaming 
up  he  disappeared.  I  learned  years  afterwards  that 
this  was  not  simply  an  incident  in  my  life,  but  a 
part  of  a  system  known  as  "peonage."  Men,  mostly 
of  foreign  birth,  are  taken  to  these  lumber  camps 
surrounded  by  some  kind  of  barrier  which  makes 
escape  impossible,  and  there  they  are  compelled 
to  remain.  According  to  United  States  Government 
reports,  there  are  thousands,  mostly  Scandinavian; 
and  Slavs,  in  the  lumbering  regions  of  our  country, 
who  are  trapped  in  some  such  wav  and  often  com- 


88    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

pelled  to  work  in  this  form  of  slavery  sometimes 
for  months.  The  barrier  in  our  case  consisted  of 
virgin  forests  on  three  sides  and  a  large  body  of 
water  on  the  other. 

However,  Louis  and  I  did  not  intend  to  be  caught, 
and  our  sailor's  ingenuity  now  stood  us  in  good 
stead.  We  dragged  a  few  logs  together  and  tied 
them  into  a  raft  with  ropes  and  chains  which  we 
found  on  the  shore;  we  made  some  poles  to  push 
the  raft  and  placing  our  belongings  upon  it,  to- 
ward sunset  of  the  second  day  we  started  on  our 
famous  journey.  For  food  we  filled  two  whisky 
bottles  with  molasses  from  a  ban-el  which,  we  found 
on  shore. 

We  had  scarcely  pushed  off  when  we  heard  shout- 
ing. I  immediately  thought  of  the  "wild  Indians" 
of  my  childhood  stories.  It  proved  to  be  a  Rus- 
sian who  also  had  left  the  camp.  He  waved  his 
ax  in  the  air  and  entreated  us  to  come  back  to 
shore.  From  his  gesticulation  and  facial  contor- 
tions, it  became  clear  to  us  that  he  meant  no  harm, 
but  that  all  he  wanted  was  a  free  passage  on  our 
new  "trans-lake-anic"  liner !  We  pulled  back  to 
shore,  took  him  on  and  started  again  upon  our  way. 
The  harmony  which  followed  can  be  better  imag- 
ined than  described.  With  a  Russian,  a  Frenchman 
and  an  Italian,  each  not  understanding  the  other, 
we  and  our  tongues  were  repeatedly  and  completely 


IN   THE   AMERICAN    STORM  89 


confounded  and  we  had  a  twentieth  century  "Tower 
of  Babel"  on  a  raft  on  an  American  lake. 

We  pushed  away  from  shore  and  started  on  our 
journey  toward  the  unknown.  We  knew  nothing 
of  our  whereabouts  and  depended  solely  on  our 
general  sense  of  direction.  Toward  dusk  we  reached 
the  other  side  of  an  inlet  not  far  from  the  starting- 
point,  and  the  question  now  came  up  as  to  what  we 
should  do  during  the  night.  Naturally  there  was 
not  much  discussion  about  the  matter  simply  be- 
cause the  linguistic  facilities  for  discussion  were 
totally  absent.  We  pulled  ashore,  however,  and 
from  the  preparations  which  Louis  and  our  Rus- 
sian "comrade"  began  to  make,  I  could  see  that 
we  were  destined  to  put  up  here  for  the  night.  While 
the  last  faint  gleams  of  light  were  disappearing, 
we  gathered  a  few  sticks  of  wood,  (the  Russian's  ax 
coming  in  handy  for  this  purpose),  and  built  a  fire. 

It  was  one  of  those  autumn  nights  when  the  pen- 
etrating chill  of  the  air  seems  to  creep  to  the  very 
marrow  of  one's  bones.  The  sky  was  overhung 
with  thick  clouds  like  omens  foreboding  ill.  Not 
a  star  was  to  be  seen.  The  wind  made  a  mournful 
sound  through  the  tree-tops.  And  in  the  thick 
darkness  the  glare  of  the  fire  cast  pale  and  fitful 
shadows.  Louis  and  the  Russian  were  soon  fast 
asleep.  A  creeping  fear  began  to  steal  over  me. 
Through  the  forest  I  could  hear  the  cries  of  wild 


90    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


animals,  and  from  afar  came  the  mournful  low  oi 
the  moose  and  the  deer.  With  every  gust  of  wind 
a  chill  of  terror  swept  over  me  and  it  seemed  as  if 
I  could  see  animals  coming  toward  me.  Once  in 
my  frenzy  I  cried  out  at  the  top  of  my  voice  and 
shook  Louis  out  of  his  deep  slumber.  He  assured 
me  that  no  animal  would  come  near  as  long  as  the 
fire  was  burning.  But  this  was  poor  consolation 
for  the  pile  of  wood  was  fast  dwindling,  and  if  the 
fire  was  to  be  kept  buraing,  I  must  go  to  the  forest 
and  gather  more.  I  implored  Louis  to  stay  awake 
with  me,  but  he  turned  over  and  was  soon  asleep 
again.  I  managed  to  gather  more  wood  and  all 
night  long  I  kept  the  fire  burning.  Perhaps  the 
reader  can  imagine  in  some  measure  what  went 
through  my  mind  that  night.    I  cannot  describe  it. 

With  the  first  streak  of  dawn,  I  woke  my  com- 
panions and  insisted  on  leaving  at  once  the  spot 
where  I  had  spent  such  a  night  of  misery,  and  on  con- 
tinuing our  journey.  We  boarded  our  raft  and 
were  soon  pushing  our  way  along  in  the  shallow 
waters.  Toward  noon  we  heard  the  blowing  of  a 
wliistle.  At  this,  the  Russian  made  motions  indi- 
cating that  we  should  abandon  the  raft  and  strike 
across  the  forest  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
sound  of  the  whistle  came.  Louis  was  inclined  to 
follow  his  proposal,  but  for  me  it  was  not  such  a 
simple  matter.  On  that  raft  were  all  my  earthlj 
possessions,  not  much,  I  grant  you,  but  in  that  sea 


IN   THE   AMEEICAN  STORM 


91 


chest  and  sailor  bag  were  all  that  was  left  to  remind 
me  of  home  and  loved  ones.  Louis  finally  decided  to 
follow  our  Russian  friend  through  the  woods.  He 
had  gone  a  few  paces  when  I  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  determination  that  he  must  not  leave  me 
alone  in  these  wilds.  He  had  been  partly  responsi- 
ble for  my  coming  to  this  forsaken  country ;  he  had 
agreed  to  leave  the  camp  with  me  and  attempt  to 
escape  from  the  trap  in  which  we  had  been  caught, 
and  he  must  stay  with  me  and  see  the  game  through, 
at  all  costs.  I  picked  up  a  rock  and  marched  up  to 
Louis.  He  did  not  understand  what  I  said  with  my 
tongue,  but  he  understood  perfectly  well  what  I  was 
saying  with  the  rock  in  my  hand.  Although  Louis 
was  nearly  twice  my  size,  he  was  a  moral  coward. 
He  offered  no  resistance,  and  waving  good-by  to 
the  Russian,  went  back  to  the  raft  with  me.  That 
was  the  last  we  saw  of  our  Russian  friend,  and  we 
never  learned  whether  he  found  his  way  out  of  the 
forest. 

Louis  and  I  again  boarded  the  raft  and  pushed 
our  way  along  the  shore.  By  evening  we  were  be- 
ginning to  get  very  hungry.  The  two  bottles  of 
molasses  were  almost  exhausted.  Above  every- 
thing else,  I  feared  another  night  in  those  desolate 
wilds ;  and  we  had  no  ax  with  which  to  get  wood. 
Just  then  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset  rays  we  saw 
a  column  of  smoke.  Have  you  ever  been  out  at 
sea  or  in  a  forest  and  roamed  for  days  not  knowing 


92   THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


your  bearings,  and  all  at  once  out  of  the  unknown 
comes  some  sign  that  help  is  near,  and  your  sink- 
ing heart  gives  a  leap  of  courage?  That  was  the 
feeling  that  now  came  over  us.  But  we  must  act 
quickly.  If  we  would  not  spend  another  night  in 
the  dreaded  woods  we  must  make  an  immediate 
dash  toward  the  smoke.  We  dragged  the  raft  onto 
a  promontory,  buried  my  belongings  under  a  pile 
of  rock  and  started  on  our  quest  of  life.  As  I  looked 
back  upon  that  pile  of  rocks,  it  seemed  as  if  I  was 
leaving  the  dearest  friends  I  had  on  earth.  But  I 
had  no  choice — I  must  go  or  starve  in  that  wild 
forest. 

We  began  to  climb  over  dead  trees  and  through 
the  underbrush,  making  very  slow  progress.  Here 
and  there  we  found  marshy  spots  over  which  we 
had  to  go  carefully  or  be  sucked  into  the  soft, 
spongy  ground  beneath  our  feet.  Meantime  it  was 
getting  darker  and  darker.  For  a  time  we  feared 
we  would  never  reach  our  destination;  the  thought 
even  crossed  my  mind  that  we  would  fall  exhausted 
and  be  eaten  by  wild  beasts.  But  we  kept  on,  per- 
spiring and  breathless,  but  driven  by  desperation. 

After  struggling  for  an  hour  or  so,  we  came  out 
near  the  spot  where  we  had  seen  smoke  rising,  and 
we  heard  the  sound  of  human  voices.  We  drew  near 
and  saw  that  it  was  a  sort  of  floating  cabin  or  house- 
boat.   It  was  really  a  floating  lumber  camp.  At 


IN   THE   AMERICAN  STOEM 


93 


first  we  were  afraid  to  go  in,  fearing  it  might  be 
a  part  of  the  same  establishment  from  which  we  had 
escaped,  and  we  would  be  caught  again.  But  as  it 
was  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  we  plucked  up  our 
courage  and  went  on,  first  concealing  what  was  left 
of  our  molasses.  As  we  approached  the  raft,  we 
smelled  food.  The  crew  was  eating  supper.  When 
we  appeared  at  the  door  there  was  a  general  com- 
motion within ;  the  lumbermen  did  not  know  what 
to  make  of  these  strange  creatures.  Louis  did  what 
he  could  to  explain  our  predicament,  and  they  imme- 
diately offered  us  the  hospitality  of  the  camp.  We 
ate  a  sumptuous  supper  and  then  Louis  told  at 
length  the  story  of  our  escape.  We  were  given  a 
place  to  sleep  on  the  floor,  which  seemed  as  soft 
as  down  to  our  weary  bodies. 

We  learned  next  morning  that  this  was  a  rival 
camp  to  the  one  from  which  we  had  escaped.  The 
booS  was  "horrified"  at  the  treatment  we  had  re- 
ceived, and  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  protector  and  a 
defender  of  justice.  We  told  him  how  we  had  left 
my  belongings  under  the  rocks  on  the  promontory 
and  he  loaned  us  a  boat  to  go  after  them,  making 
sure  that  we  would  not  escape  with  the  boat,  by 
sending  two  men  along  with  us.  We  brought  back 
my  sea  chest  and  bag  to  the  camp  and  that  night 
the  lumber  jacks  had  an  enjoyable  entertainment 
looking  over  the  strange  things  contained  in  them. 


94    THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


Some  little  trinkets  I  gave  away  to  the  men  in  token 
of  appreciation  of  the  kindness  they  had  shown  us ; 
other  articles  disappeared  mysteriously. 

On  the  following  morning  the  boss  hailed  the 
steamer  as  it  passed  by,  and  after  much  argument 
forced  the  captain,  who  three  days  before  had  re- 
fused us  passage,  to  take  us  to  Norcross.  Once 
on  board,  the  captain  demanded  the  payment  of 
twelve  dollars  for  our  passage.  We  told  him  we 
had  no  money  and  showed  him  the  inside  of  our 
pockets.  He  agreed  to  land  us  at  Norcross  pro- 
vided we  would  leave  my  belongings  until  we  could 
come  back  to  pay  him  the  money.  It  was  not  un- 
til months  afterward  that  I  was  able  to  redeem 
them. 

We  emerged  from  this  camp  only  to  find  our  way 
to  another,  as  there  was  no  other  work  available  in 
the  vicinity.  It  was  while  in  this  second  camp  that 
I  came  near  losing  my  life.  It  was  now  late  Oc- 
tober. The  snows  were  beginning  to  fall,  adorning 
the  trees  with  matchless  white  and  making  a  thin 
ci-ust  of  ice  over  rivers  and  lakes.  Such  spotless 
beauty  I  had  never  seen  before ;  the  whole  scene  was 
enchanting  to  me.  In  all  my  life  I  had  seen  snow 
only  once,  and  at  Edinburgh  I  had  once  seen  ice 
covering  the  water. 

One  day  I  was  detailed  to  go  on  an  errand  to 
Millinocket,  some  five  miles  away,  across  the  river. 
To  cross  the  river  one  might  follow  one  of  two 


IN   THE   AMERICAN  STORM 


95 


courses,  either  go  down  to  the  bridge,  some  three 
miles  down-stream,  or  cross  over  the  rocks  at  a 
narrow  place,  which  was  fairly  passable  when  the 
river  was  low.  On  reaching  the  river  I  decided  tr 
take  the  latter  course.  My  father  had  taught  me 
that  a  straight  line  is  the  shortest  distance  be- 
tween two  points.  So  it  is  in  the  abstract.  But 
unfortunately  it  did  not  prove  to  be  so  in  this  case. 
I  noticed  that  the  waters  were  gushing  over  the 
narrows  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  cross  at  that 
point.  Not  far  down-stream,  however,  I  saw  a  mani 
crossing  on  the  ice.  The  sight  fascinated  me;  in 
my  childhood  I  had  dreamed  of  walking  on  the 
water,  and  now  it  seemed  that  my  dream  would 
actually  come  true.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation 
I  chose  what  I  thought  a  convenient  place  to  cross 
and  began  to  make  my  way.  Some  two  or  three 
miles  above  Millinocket  the  Penobscot  River  passes 
through  a  narrow  ravine  and  then  broadens  ma- 
jestically as  it  approaches  the  gigantic  falls  which 
furnish  power  for  one  of  the  greatest  pulp  mills 
in  the  world.  I  chose  a  comparatively  narrow 
place  to  cross,  having  no  way  of  knowing  that 
waters  run  swiftest  in  the  narrows.  As  I  made 
my  way  toward  the  middle  of  the  river  I  noticed 
that  the  ice  was  not  so  white  as  near  the  edge,  but 
did  not  connect  it  with  any  possible  weakness  in 
the  smooth  and  beautiful  pavement  under  me.  I 
walked  slowly  in  order  not  to  slip.    I  had  reached 


96    THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

the  middle  of  the  river,  when  of  a  sudden,  without 
warning,  the  ice  broke  under  my  feet  and  I  went 
down  into  the  icy  and  swiftly  moving  current. 

For  the  next  fifteen  minutes  I  had  a  battle  for 
life.  The  madly-rushing  waters  dragged  my  feet 
under  the  thin  layer  of  ice.  I  would  get  hold  of 
the  edge  of  the  frail  substance  only  to  find  it 
breaking  in  my  hand  while  I  struggled  to  get  a 
firmer  grasp.  I  lay  flat  on  the  ice,  thinking  I 
could  thus  distribute  my  weight,  but  whole  pieces 
would  break  under  me  and  I  would  be  floating 
on  a  large  piece  of  thin  ice.  How  I  finally  man- 
aged to  crawl  to  shore  I  cannot  say.  My  clothing 
was  soon  frozen  stiff'  in  the  chill  wind  and  I  was 
completely  exhausted.  It  was  not  until  the  next 
day  that  I  fully  regained  consciousness  and  realized 
all  that  had  happened.  I  was  then  in  my  bunk 
at  the  camp.  It  appears  that  some  one  had  picked 
me  up  and  carried  me  back  to  camp.  I  never  un- 
derstood the  details.  Truly  this  was  a  "cool"  re- 
ception which  Monsieur  North  America  was  giving 
to  a  son  of  Sunny  Italy. 

All  through  that  winter  I  suff'ered  greatly  from 
the  cold  and  I  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  be  really 
comfortable.  Sometimes  when  I  hear  people  speak- 
ing rather  disparagingly  of  immigrants  from  tem- 
perate climates  for  hibernating  during  the  cold 
winter  months,  I  am  reminded  of  the  experiences  of 


IN   THE   AMERICAN    STORM  97 

the  first  winter  in  North  America  and  I  understand 
fully  why  these  humble  peasants  of  sunny  climes  are 
willing  to  work  all  the  harder  in  the  summer  months 
in  order  not  to  be  exposed  to  the  rigors  of  the 
winter. 

So  climatic  conditions  indirectly  become  no  small 
factor  in  the  assimilation  of  certain  immigrant 
groups  and  the  non-assimilation  of  others.  The 
crisp  cold  that  puts  a  spring  in  the  steps  of  some 
drives  others  to  cover.  Were  it  possible  to  properly 
distribute  these  people  according  to  the  climatic 
conditions  of  the  different  parts  of  the  country  it 
would  be  otherwise;  however,  that  question  cannot 
be  considered  here.  Climate  also  explains  in  a 
measure  why  so  many  immigrants  return  to  their 
native  land  from  year  to  year. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Louis  and  I  came  to 
the  parting  of  the  ways.  We  had  come  to  work  in 
still  another  logging  camp,  the  crew  of  which  was 
made  up  entirely  of  French  Canadians.  Louis  felt 
very  much  at  home  in  their  midst.  I  noticed  from 
the  very  first  that  he  was  gradually  beginning  to  put 
aside  the  Italian  cloak  which  he  had  worn  for  sev- 
eral weeks  and  was  becoming  a  Frenchman  again. 
It  was  natural  that  he  should  do  so.  But  I  also 
noticed  that  in  proportion  as  he  was  reclaimed  to 
his  own  nationality,  I  was  passing  out  of  Louis' 
interests.    At  last  I  found  myself  the  only  "for- 


98    THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

eigner"  in  the  group.  Presently,  on  the  grounds 
that  I  was  an  inefficient  lumberman,  I  was  dis- 
charged. 

I  saw  Louis  just  once  after  that.  He  was  alto- 
gether a  Frenchman  again,  but  for  one  thing.  Ever 
since  we  had  been  together  he  had  been  wearing  some 
of  my  clothes,  even  though  they  were  far  too  small 
for  hira.  Among  other  articles  he  had  frequently 
worn  a  pair  of  gray  trousers,  my  Sunday-go-to- 
meeting  ones,  in  fact  the  only  pair  of  to-day-I-am- 
not-working  pants  I  owned.  Louis  looked  so  funny 
in  them ;  they  reached  well  above  his  ankles  on  his 
thin  mast-like  legs  and  were  tighter  by  far  around 
the  hips  than  anything  he  must  have  worn  in  his 
days  before  the  mast.  As  I  was  about  to  leave  the 
camp,  I  demanded  that  he  divest  himself  of  my 
precious  belongings,  but  he  refused.  So  I  planned 
my  revenge.  On  the  Sunday  following  my  discharge, 
I  had  settled  down,  as  we  will  presently  see,  in  Stacy- 
ville,  and  I  felt  a  special  need  of  my  pantaloons.  So 
I  decided  I  would  go  a-hunting  for  them.  I  bor- 
rowed a  .38  rifle  for  the  occasion,  and  strapping  it 
over  my  shoulder,  soon  after  dinner  I  started  on  my 
punitive  errand.  On  reacliing  the  camp,  I  squatted 
myself  under  a  tree,  whose  branches  reached  well 
down  to  the  ground  and  there  I  waited  patiently  for 
the  appearance  of  my  trousers.  They  did  not  show 
up  all  afternoon  and  at  night  I  returned  to  Stacy- 
ville.   The  next  Sabbath  I  started  again  on  my  hunt ; 


IN   THE    AMERICAN  STORM 


99 


this  time  I  took  to  the  road  with  my  rifle  bright  and 
early,  thinking  I  might  have  a  better  chance  to  see 
my  trousers  walking  about  the  camp.  On  reaching 
the  spot  I  again  hid  myself  under  the  trees,  with 
the  barrel  of  my  gun  pointing  toward  the  door  of  the 
camp.  All  day  long  I  lay  there  silent  as  a  mouse. 
The  pantaloons  did  not  appear  and  it  seemed  as  if 
they  must  have  smelled  a  rat,  for  though  everybody 
else  came,  I  did  not  once  see  Louis.  Finally,  toward 
evening,  I  saw  two  men  standing  near  the  side  of 
the  camp.  I  could  not  see  their  faces,  but  on  careful 
scrutiny,  I  observed  the  up-ankle  appearance  of  my 
pants,  and  springing  from  my  hiding-place  I  cocked 
my  gim  and  suddenly  faced  Louis.  "My  pants  or 
your  hfe!"  I  seemed  to  say.  Louis  stood  petrified 
before  me.  I  ordered  him  to  dismantle  himself  then 
and  there,  or  I  would  shoot.  He  did  not  move.  Just 
then  two  other  men  came  out  from  the  camp.  Know- 
ing the  true  condition  of  my  gun,  and  feai-ing  a 
sudden  attack  from  all  present,  I  began  to  retreat 
slowly.  As  they  came  toward  me  I  turned  heel  and 
fled  without  fii'ing  a  single  shot,  for  I  had  made  sure 
to  leave  every  last  cartridge  at  the  house,  not  wish- 
ing to  inflict  any  injury  on  my  best  trousers  or  on 
the  thin  legs  within  them. 

So  I  returned  to  Stacyville  pantless,  panting  and 
forlorn,  and  I  never  saw  my  trousers  any  more. 
When  years  afterward,  I  learned  the  song  "NeUie 
Gray,"  visions  of  my  pantaloons  would  loom  before 
me  as  I  sang,  "I'll  never  see  my  trousers  any  more." 


I  GO  TO  JAIL 


[There  was  a]  breaking  heart  beneath  the  stars, 
Tho'  the  hushed  earth  lay  smiling  in  the  light. 
And  the  dull  fetters  and  the  prison  bars 
Saw  bitter  tears  of  agony  that  night, 
And  heard  such  burning  words  of  love  and  truth 
As  wring  the  life-drops  from  the  heart  of  youth. 

Phoebe  Carey. 


CHAPTER  V 


I  GO  TO  JAIL 

THE  reader  will  understand  that  on  the  day  I 
left  Louis  and  the  camp  my  feelings  were 
far  from  joyous.  Here  I  was,  all  alone,  the 
only  real  companion  I  had  in  America  forever  gone. 
I  was  far  away  from  Boston  and  farther  than  ever 
from  my  dream  of  returning  home.  By  evening  I 
reached  the  depot  at  Stacyville,  and  sitting  down 
upon  the  station  platform  I  put  my  face  in  my  hands 
and  began  to  meditate  upon  all  that  had  transpired 
from  the  time  I  left  home  years  before  to  the  present. 
Whenever  I  think  of  that  scene,  there  comes  to  my 
mind  the  picture  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  But  in  that 
parable  there  was  no  ocean,  no  foreign  country,  and 
it  was  comparatively  easy  for  the  son  to  return  to 
his  father.  If  some  of  those  difficulties  had  been 
considered  in  the  story,  I  am  sure  it  would  hold  a 
very  deep  significance  for  foreign  boys  in  this  coun- 
try. I  have  no  doubt  that  many  of  them  at  times 
are  filled  with  deep  yearnings  to  return  to  their 
fathers'  houses,  but  the  distance  is  too  great,  the 
ocean  is  too  big,  and  they  cannot  go. 

[103] 


104  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

As  I  sat  on  the  platform,  I  lived  again  in  my 
memory  all  the  years  of  my  wanderings.  An  inex- 
pressible longing  seized  me  to  return  to  my  people 
across  the  sea.  As  I  write  these  lines,  in  the  rest 
hours  of  this  Sunday  morning,  I  wonder  how  many 
thousands  of  immigrant  boys  are  finding  life  a  lonely 
game  in  this  country  and  are  hungering  for  their 
loved  ones  at  home. 

I  arose,  gritting  my  teeth.  Then  walking  up  to 
the  station  master,  I  told  my  story,  and  offering  him 
the  seventy-five  cents  which  I  had,  I  asked  him  to 
sell  me  a  ticket  to  the  nearest  place  where  I  could 
find  even  one  ItaUan.  I  longed  just  to  talk  to  some 
one  in  my  own  tongue.  But  he  shook  his  head;  the 
nearest  place  was  Millinocket,  and  seventy-five  cents 
was  not  enough  to  take  me  there.  Just  then  a  man 
drove  up  with  a  load  of  potatoes.  The  station 
master  explained  my  predicament  to  him  and  asked 
him  if  he  did  not  want  a  young  man  to  work  for 
him.  Right  then  and  there  George  Annis,  for  that 
was  his  name,  offered  me  work  on  his  farm  at  $15  a 
month,  with  board,  room  and  washing.  It  seemed 
very  good  to  me.  In  two  or  three  months  I  would 
earn  enough  for  my  return  passage  to  Italy.  So  I 
helped  him  imload  his  potatoes  and  drove  back  with 
him  to  his  farm,  about  two  miles  from  the  Stacyville 
depot. 

Stacyville  is  one  of  those  small  hamlets  so  often 
found  in  the  sparsely  settled  sections  of  our  country, 


I   GO   TO  JAIL 


105 


consisting  of  a  rickety  depot,  a  few  houses,  un- 
painted  for  a  generation;  a  store  in  which  you  can 
buy  anything  from  a  cobble  nail  to  a  feather  for  a 
lady's  hat ;  a  weatherbeaten  old  building  which  dares 
to  assume  the  dignified  name  of  "church,"  and  where 
a  few  old  ladies  and  gentlemen  look  at  everybody 
over  their  glasses ;  these  made  up  what  is  called  a 
"village."  In  StacyviUe  there  was  not  even  a  church. 
Evidently  the  residents  of  this  *'village"  did  not 
believe  in  having  religion  intrude  itself  in  their 
affairs.  Occasionally  in  the  winter  time,  when  there 
was  not  much  to  do,  a  young  minister  from  a  neigh- 
boring village  held  services,  but  that  was  aU.  It  is 
a  prevalent  idea  that  the  city  is  the  abode  of  wicked- 
ness and  vice,  while  the  country  life  is  free  from 
temptations  of  this  sort.  This  may  be  true  in  some 
communities  in  which  I  have  not  been  privileged  to 
live,  but  it  certainly  was  not  so  of  Stacyville.  I 
have  never  in  all  my  life  heard  such  obscene,  filthy, 
profane  language  as  I  heard  used  by  the  men  of 
that  village.  The  oaths  of  the  old  Tuscan  sailor 
on  board  the  Francesco  were  mild  in  comparison  to 
it.  The  women  too,  on  occasion,  were  not  averse  to 
the  use  of  the  same  kind  of  choice  phrases.  Some 
of  the  women  smoked,  not  the  delicate  cigarette  of 
the  New  Yorker,  but  odoriferous  old  pipes.  Liquor 
flowed  freely,  though  it  was  in  prohibition  Maine, 
and  there  were  one  or  two  houses  of  ill  repute.  And 
so  I  might  go  on  describing  the  life  of  this  first 


106  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

village  which  I,  a  foreigner,  was  to  come  to  know 
intimately.  From  these  people  I  learned  my  first 
lessons  in  English  and  my  first  lessons  in  American 
life  and  manners. 

I  was  much  pleased  at  the  outset  to  learn  that 
George  Annis  was  an  American.  Thus  far  I  had 
come  into  personal  contact  with  an  Italian  bar- 
ber; Louis,  a  Frenchman;  my  "padrone,"  an 
ItaUan;  the  factory  superintendent,  a  Swede;  and 
my  boss  at  the  lumber  camp,  a  Scandinavian.  All 
the  while  I  had  wondered  what  an  American  em- 
ployer was  like.  So  I  was  pleased  to  have  George 
Annis  as  my  prospective  "boss." 

The  first  event  of  importance  which  occurred  in 
my  life  in  this  American  home  was  the  changing  of 
ray  name.  George  Annis,  who  I  discovered  later  was 
almost  illiterate,  could  not  pronounce  what  he  called 
my  "Eyetalian"  name.  So  he  proposed  to  change 
it.  I  was  at  first  bewildered  and  wondered  what  my 
relatives  would  think,  since  they  had  given  me  my 
name  to  perpetuate  that  of  my  grandfather.  But  I 
wanted  to  be  as  much  as  possible  like  an  American, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  no  way  out  of  it,  so  George 
changed  my  unpronounceable  Itahan  name  to  one 
that  was  genuinely  American. 

This  is  not  an  uncommon  experience  among  immi- 
grants in  this  country.  Some  make  a  change  on 
their  own  initiative,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  or 
in  order  to  be  Americans  at  least  in  name.    By  far 


I   GO   TO  JAIL 


107 


the  greater  number  of  changes,  however,  are  super- 
imposed by  employers.  In  either  case,  some  of  the 
changes  are  truly  humorous.  Dr.  Edward  Steiner  in 
one  of  his  books,  tells  the  story  of  a  young  Italian 
whose  name  was  Giovanni  Salvini.  Having  lived  in 
tliis  country  for  a  period, — it  must  have  been  in 
Boston, — he  decided  to  change  his  name.  He  began 
to  cast  about  to  find  some  genuine  American  name 
which  he  might  adopt  as  his  own.  At  last  he  hit 
upon  one  which  was  from  its  common  use,  to  his  way 
of  thinking,  truly  American.  So  he  called  himself 
"Mike  Sullivan." 

The  name  which  George  Annis  gave  me,  however, 
far  excelled  that  for  its  true  American  origin;  in  its 
very  atmosphere  it  was  American,  and  fairly  smelled 
of  Americanism.  For  a  period  of  some  three  months 
I  was  known  as  "Mr.  Beefsteak."  When  I  discovered 
its  true  significance,  I  naturally  objected  to  passing 
for  Italian  tenderloin.  Then  George  gave  me  a 
second  name,  Frank  Nardi,  which  stayed  with  me 
until  I  entered  school  and  was  able  to  assume  my 
own  name  again.  Meanwhile,  I  was  ashamed  to  ac- 
knowledge to  my  people  at  home  that  I  had  con- 
sented to  the  change  of  my  name,  and  I  sent  them 
envelopes  addressed  to  "Mr.  Frank  Nardi"  and  di- 
rected them  to  insert  in  these  sealed  letters  bearing 
my  proper  name.  Later  I  learned  that  tliis  is 
precisely  the  practice  resorted  to  by  immigrants  with 
changed  names. 


108  THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

At  once  I  set  myself  to  the  task  of  learning  Eng- 
lish. My  motive  for  this  was  twofold:  First  I 
realized  that  a  knowledge  of  English  was  necessary 
to  my  work;  and  second,  I  wanted  to  acquire  a 
knowledge  of  English  so  that  on  my  return  home  in  a 
few  months  I  might  become  an  interpreter  like  the 
old  blind  man  I  had  seen  in  Molfetta  years  before. 
I  applied  myself  to  this  task  as  best  I  could  simply 
by  listening  to  the  speech  of  others,  and  in  five 
months  had  gained  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  English 
to  provoke  the  remark  that  I  was  a  "liar"  when  I 
said  I  had  been  in  this  country  but  a  few  months. 
Of  course  one  thing  was  greatly  to  my  advantage. 
This  was  the  fact  that  there  was  not  a  single  person 
in  Stacyville  who  could  speak  Italian,  so  I  was 
forced  to  use  English  at  all  times.  In  fact,  it  was 
fully  three  years  before  I  spoke  Italian  again  and 
then  I  found  it  difficult  to  say  the  first  few  words. 
It  has  been  my  observation  that  if  young  immigrants 
in  the  early  stages  of  their  life  in  this  country  have 
the  opportunity  to  be  separated  from  those  who 
speak  the  native  tongue,  in  a  comparatively  brief 
period  they  get  a  good  grasp  of  the  English  lan- 
guage. And  what  is  more,  they  come  to  understand 
the  advantages  of  mingling  with  American  people 
and  to  develop  a  wholesome  attitude  toward  America 
and  all  things  American. 

But  I  started  to  tell  the  story  of  my  first  lessons 
in  English.    Soon  after  my  arrival  at  the  Annis 


I   GO  TO  JAIL 


109 


farm,  I  was  put  at  the  task  of  picking  up  potatoes. 
We  had  two  sets  of  barrels ;  I  was  instructed  to  put 
the  large  potatoes  into  one  barrel  and  the  small  ones, 
together  with  those  partly  decayed,  into  another. 
In  my  eagerness  to  learn  English,  I  asked  John 
Brown,  a  fellow  worker,  "What  call  these.?"  point- 
ing to  the  large  potatoes.  "Them  are  good,  good 
potatoes,"  was  his  answer.  As  the  most  obvious 
quality  was  the  size,  rather  than  the  goodness,  of 
these  potatoes,  naturally  "good"  meant  "large"  to 
me.  "And  what  them?"  I  inquired,  pointing  to 
the  small  and  decayed  potatoes.  "Them  are  rotten," 
said  Brown.  In  contrast  with  "large,"  "rotten" 
then  meant  "small"  to  me.  The  days  passed  and 
I  felt  quite  happy  in  the  thought  of  having  learned 
two  very  essential  words,  "large"  and  "small."  One 
day  I  saw  a  beautiful  young  colt  going  by.  I  called 
Gracie,  the  housekeeper's  little  girl,  and  asked  her, 
"What  caU  that.?"  "Colt,"  she  said.  Putting  the 
two  things  together,  I  said,  "That  is  a  rotten  colt." 
She  laughed  and  I  could  not  understand  why.  As 
no  one  enlightened  me,  I  kept  on  using  the  two  words 
*'good"  and  "rotten"  in  the  sense  I  understood 
them.  Whenever  I  saw  a  small  house,  I  would  say: 
"That  is  a  rotten  house,"  or  a  small  man,  "That  is 
a  rotten  man."   And  people  laughed  at  my  English! 

George  Annis  also  had  some  apples  on  the  farm, 
and  in  the  course  of  conversation  often  used  the 
word  "apples."     Now  any  one  acquainted  with 


110  THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

Italian  knows  that  the  word  Naples  in  its  first  syl- 
lable is  pronounced  very  much  like  "apples" ;  and 
every  time  the  word  was  uttered  I  thought  they  were 
talking  about  me.  This  was  perhaps  due  to  the  fact 
that  I  had  been  brought  up  to  have  a  feehng  of  aver- 
sion for  Naples  because  of  the  life  of  that  city,  and 
I  was  afraid  Annis  had  taken  me  for  a  Neopolitan. 

I  worked  on  George  Annis'  farm  until  late  fall, 
and  in  the  winter  I  went  into  the  woods  with  him  and 
worked  as  "cookie"  or  assistant  cook,  in  a  lumbering 
camp  of  his  own.  In  the  early  spring  we  returned 
to  the  farm.  The  time  had  at  last  come  when  I 
was  ready  to  return  to  Italy.  I  had  worked  for  six 
months:  at  $15  per  month  that  meant  $90.  I  had 
received  only  five  dollars  in  cash,  and  that  would 
leave  $85  coming  to  me,  which  would  certainly  be 
sufficient  to  buy  me  a  third  class  passage  and  leave 
something  with  which  to  purchase  a  few  gifts  to  take 
back  with  me.  In  the  meantime  I  had  been  in  corre- 
spondence with  an  Italian  bank  in  Boston  and  had 
made  arrangements  for  them  to  reserve  for  "Frank 
Nardi"  a  third  class  passage  for  the  middle  of 
April.  About  the  first  of  the  month  I  went  to  Mr. 
Annis  and  asked  him  to  pay  me.  He  said  he  would 
do  so  in  a  few  days.  The  middle  of  the  month  was 
now  approaching  and  the  time  for  my  departure 
was  near,  so  again  I  went  to  him.  It  was  then  that 
the  truth  came  out.  He  laughed  me  out  of  court 
;  nd  with  a  sneer  upon  his  lips  which  I  remember 


I   GO    rO  JAIL 


111 


to  this  very  day,  he  handed  me  a  five-dollar  bill  and 
said  that  that  was  all  he  could  pay  me. 

I  cannot  well  describe  the  feeling  which  came  over 
me.  It  was  as  if  the  very  earth  had  crumbled  away 
under  my  feet ;  I  was  bitterly  angry ;  I  hated  the 
man  and  I  hated  America  with  all  the  strength  of 
my  young  soul.  And  as  I  reflect  upon  the  incident 
and  the  feelings  which  surged  through  my  being  on 
that  day,  I  understand  why  "foreigners"  are  so 
often  suspicious,  and  why  they  so  often  have  cause 
to  feel  anything  but  admiration  or  love  for  America 
and  things  American. 

I  was  determined  to  have  justice,  however,  and 
so  decided  to  go  to  Boston  and  ask  the  assistance  of 
an  Italian  lawyer  in  an  effort  to  collect  the  money 
I  had  earned.  To  decide  to  do  this  was  one 
thing.  To  carry  out  my  decision  was  an  entirely 
different  matter.  I  went  to  the  depot  and  offered 
the  agent  the  five-dollar  bill  which  Annis  had  given 
me,  for  a  ticket  to  Boston.  He  shook  his  head 
and  informed  me  it  would  take  much  more  than  that 
to  buy  a  ticket  for  Boston.  I  tried  to  borrow  some 
money,  but  failed.  One  day  I  confided  in  a  young 
friend  of  mine,  who  disliked  Annis,  and  he  suggested 
a  way  whereby  I  could  get  to  Boston  without  diffi- 
culty. He  said  it  was  often  customary  for  a  young 
fellow  like  me  to  jump  on  the  first  train  that  came 
along  and  go  wherever  he  willed.  He  even  specified 
the  coal  tender  as  the  best  place  to  ride.    Of  course 


112  THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

I  had  had  no  experience  of  this  character,  but 
I  was  desperate  and  decided  to  follow  his  advice 
and  get  to  Boston  in  the  way  he  had  suggested. 

In  those  days  there  were  only  two  trains  a  day 
through  Stacyville.  Late  one  afternoon,  I  waited 
for  the  train,  and,  following  the  directions  of  my 
friend,  I  took  my  place  on  the  back  of  the  coal 
tender  and  seated  mj'self  as  comfortably  as  pos- 
sible, ready  for  the  long  trip.  I  do  not  quite 
understand  how  the  engineer  or  some  one  of  the 
train  crew  failed  to  see  me,  for  I,  unconscious 
that  I  was  doing  anything  wrong,  made  no  effort 
whatever  to  conceal  myself,  and  in  fact,  got  on 
from  the  same  side  that  the  passengers  boarded 
the  train.  The  train  started  on  its  journey,  and  as 
evening  came  on  I  began  to  grow  cold.  It  was  rather 
a  sharp  frosty  night.  All  my  clothing  was  stiU  at 
Norcross,  and  I  was  thinly  clad  and  felt  the  cold. 
I  curled  up  next  to  the  door  of  the  baggage  car  and 
tried  to  go  to  sleep.  It  must  have  been  about  ten 
o'clock  when  we  came  to  a  siding,  where  the  train 
stopped  to  allow  a  northbound  express  to  go  by. 
The  engineer  came  out  to  look  over  his  engine. 
Thinking  it  would  warm  me  up  a  little  if  I  should 
walk  around  for  a  moment,  I  jumped  off  the  train 
and  went  up  to  the  engineer.  He  looked  at  me  in 
amazement  and  asked  me  what  I  was  doing  there. 
In  broken  English  I  told  him  my  story,  how  I  had 
lost  my  money  and  was   going  to  Boston  and 


I   GO   TO  JAIL 


113 


secure  the  help  of  a  lawyer.  He  made  no  com- 
ment, and  I  got  on  the  train  again.  I  do  not  re- 
member seeing  any  one  else  than  the  engineer.  The 
expi'ess  went  by  and  the  train  started  once  more. 
As  it  sped  on  its  way,  every  now  and  then  the  whistle 
would  peal  forth  its  horrible  shrieks,  intensified  by 
the  quietness  of  the  night ;  and  with  the  pouring  in 
of  fresh  coal,  the  flames  would  shoot  up,  leaving 
long  tracks  of  light  against  the  darkness  of  the 
sky. 

A  few  moments  after  the  train  had  started,  the 
door  of  the  baggage  car  behind  me  suddenly  opened 
and  I  felt  a  hand  taking  hold  of  my  collar  and 
pulling  me  in.  It  was  the  train-master.  Doubtless 
the  engineer  had  in  some  way  managed  to  let  him 
know  that  I  was  on  the  train.  He  pulled  me  to  the 
center  of  the  car  and  asked  me  to  sit  down  upon  a 
box.  The  other  members  of  the  train  crew  sur- 
rounded me,  looking  as  if  they  were  ready  at  any 
moment  to  spring  upon  me.  The  train-master  asked 
me  my  name  and  where  I  lived,  noting  the  answers 
in  a  little  book.  I  told  him  the  whole  story  as  best 
I  could,  and  when  I  was  through  he  told  me  to  stay 
there  and  I  was  thankful,  for  it  had  grown  very  cold 
outside. 

It  must  have  been  about  an  hour  later  when  the 
train  came  to  a  stop  at  a  station,  which  I  learned 
afterward  was  somewhere  in  Vermont.  I  had  fallen 
asleep  and  the  next  thing  I  knew  a  great  big  man 


114  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


stood  over  me,  shaking  me  by  the  shoulder.  I  awoke 
and  answered  several  questions  which  he  asked  me. 
I  understood  him  to  say,  "You  stay  in  this  town 
to-night.  Come  with  me  and  I'll  put  you  up."  I 
took  this  as  a  matter  of  counsel,  although  I  noticed 
that  he  grinned.  But  as  I  was  very  tired  and  sleepy, 
I  gave  it  no  thought  and  decided  to  follow  his  advice, 
thinking  I  would  go  on  the  next  day.  I  was  reaUy 
thankful  for  his  offer  of  shelter  and  thought  to 
myself  that  after  aU  Americans  were  kind  to  travel- 
ing strangers,  as  we  were  in  Italy. 

The  big  man  took  hold  of  my  hand  and  led  me 
through  the  dark  streets.  As  he  did  so,  the  same 
sense  of  security  came  over  me  which  I  had  felt  as  a 
small  boy  when  my  father  would  take  me  by  the 
hand  and  lead  me  in  the  dark.  I  walked  along,  now 
and  then  saying  a  word  or  two  to  break  the  silence. 
We  came  to  a  narrow  alley,  which  seemed  darker 
than  ever.  The  big  man  pulled  a  key  from  his 
pocket  and  opened  a  door.  He  led  me  in,  still  hold- 
ing me  by  the  hand,  and  locked  the  door  from 
within.  Then  he  lighted  a  small  kerosene  lamp,  and 
I  looked  around.  I  said  to  myself,  "What  a  funny 
sort  of  house  this  man  lives  in ;  he  must  be  a  hermit." 
It  was  a  square  room,  with  walls  of  bare  bricks. 
There  was  no  picture  on  the  walls  and  not  a  sign  of 
human  habitation.  To  the  right  were  two  tiny 
rooms,  more  like  small  alcoves ;  in  each  was  a  small 
bunk-like  arrangement  with  straw  spread  upon  it. 


I   GO   TO  JAIL 


115 


He  pointed  to  one  of  these  and  said,  "You  can  sleep 
there  for  now."  Then  he  began  to  move  toward  the 
door,  while  I  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  As  he 
approached  the  door,  still  with  his  back  to  it,  he  took 
out  the  key  and  unlocked  it  with  his  hand  behind 
him,  still  facing  me.  I  reached  for  the  lamp,  which 
was  on  a  little  shelf  in  the  alcove,  thinking  to  give 
him  more  light.  As  I  reached  for  it,  he  slipped  out 
with  a  quick  movement  and  turned  the  key  from  the 
outside.  Then  I  saw  the  bars  in  the  windows.  With 
this  the  awful  realization  came  over  me:  I  was  in  jail. 

I  do  not  like  to  recollect  what  happened  during 
the  next  few  moments,  or  of  the  awful  anguish  of 
that  night.  It  hurts  me  even  yet  to  think  of  it. 
There  was  a  flood  of  tears  and  cries  from  a  soul 
wrung  in  bitter  agony.  Here  in  the  face  of  cruel 
injustice  and  seeking  a  means  of  securing  justice, 
I  had  been  hurled  into  prison.  What  would  they 
do  with  me  now The  vivid  stories  of  Silvio  Pellico's 
prison  experiences,  which  I  had  read  when  a  boy, 
came  back  to  my  mind.  Upon  the  wall  were  some 
scribbles  in  Italian  to  the  effect  that  he  who  by 
chance  should  enter  that  cell  would  never  leave  it 
alive.  What  would  they  really  do  to  me.''  Would 
they  burn  me.''  Hang  me.''  Shoot  me.''  No  one  who 
has  not  gone  through  a  similar  experience  can  fully 
realize  the  feelings  that  surged  through  me,  crushing 
my  very  soul.  How  could  I,  with  my  scanty  knowl- 
edge of  English,  explain  my  innocence.''    All  that 


116THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


long  night  I  spent  standing  by  the  bars,  looking  out 
toward  the  free  world  and  wondejing  what  would 
become  of  me.  The  silence  was  oppressive;  my 
heart-throbs  were  like  muffled  drum-beats.  Now 
and  then,  the  sharp  realization  of  what  had  hap- 
pened came  over  me,  and  I  would  cry  out  in  sheer 
bewilderment.  I  called  for  "mother"  as  only  a  child 
can  cry  when  utterly  lost  and  in  despair. 

It  seemed  years  before  the  first  gleams  of  light 
began  to  appear  in  the  sky.  I  had  had  not  a  mo- 
ment of  rest.  Quite  early  in  the  morning  the  black- 
smith across  the  street  opened  his  shop.  I  must 
have  disturbed  him  during  the  night,  for  no  sooner 
had  he  opened  the  doors  than  he  came  up  to  the  bars 
through  which  I  was  looking  and  still  crying.  I 
thought  he  was  coming  to  show  me  sympathy,  but 
he  spat  into  my  face,  saying  something  which  I  did 
not  understand,  then  turned  back  to  his  anvil. 
Later,  innocent  little  urchins  and  sweet  little  girls 
came  and  threw  stones  at  me.  It  was  about  nine 
o'clock  when  I  saw  the  big  man  coming  toward  the 
jail.  He  said  he  had  come  to  take  me  to  court.  I 
plead  with  him  to  let  me  go,  but  he  held  me  tightly 
in  his  grip  and  led  me  through  the  streets,  while  a 
crowd  of  little  children  followed.  I  was  in  a  cold 
perspiration  and  trembling  with  exhaustion  when  we 
reached  the  court. 

The  moment  I  stepped  into  the  courtroom  and 
looked  into  the  kindly  face  of  the  judge  a  feeling 


I   GO   TO  JAIL 


117 


of  hope  came  over  me.  I  felt  certain  I  was  looking 
into  the  face  of  a  friend  who  would  comprehend. 
There  are  moments  in  Ufe  when  the  spoken  word  is 
not  necessary  to  give  us  a  glimpse  of  a  soul.  In- 
stinctively I  knew  that  I  was  standing  before  a  man 
who  would  deal  justly  and  kindly  with  me.  In 
answer  to  the  judge's  questions,  I  precipitately  told 
my  story.  I  offered  him  such  letters  as  I  had  with 
me,  from  my  relatives  and  from  the  bank  in  Boston, 
as  a  means  of  identification.  I  saw  a  light  of  under- 
standing come  over  the  kindly  countenance  of  the 
judge.  He  understood  my  predicament  and  ordered 
me  dismissed.  He  instructed  the  big  man  to  brush 
me  off,  give  me  a  breakfast,  take  me  to  the  depot  and 
buy  me  a  ticket  for  Stacy ville,  the  place  from  which 
I  had  come.  I  presume  this  was  in  compliance  with 
the  vagrancy  law  of  the  state.  I  asked  no  ques- 
tion and  offered  no  objection.  I  was  thankful  to  be 
a  free  man  again,  even  though  I  was  being  sent  back 
to  Stacyville. 

I  can  never  be  thankful  enough  to  that  kindly 
old  judge.  I  have  often  wished  I  might  be  able  to 
express  to  him  my  gratitude  for  his  treatment  of 
me.  He  might  well  have  condemned  me  to  a  re- 
formatory or  prison  or  heavily  fined  me,  but  he  was 
one  of  those  really  human  judges,  who  in  dealing  with 
a  "foreigner"  as  well  as  a  native,  tempers  the  techni- 
cality of  the  law  with  the  warmth  of  human  con- 
sideration.    This  often  saves  a  youth  from  be- 


118  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


coming  a  criminal.  I  presume,  however,  that  some- 
where in  the  police  records  of  the  state  of  Vermont, 
my  name,  alias  "Frank  Nardi,"  is  to  be  found;  along 
with  thousands  of  other  unfortunates,  some  of  them 
doubtless  as  innocent  as  I.  Doubtless  also,  some- 
where a  careful  student  of  the  criminal  tendencies 
of  the  foreign-born  people  of  this  country  has 
counted  my  name  along  with  thousands  of  others  in 
his  impersonal  statistical  study  of  the  criminahty 
of  the  immigrant  groups  in  the  United  States. 


I  AM  CAUGHT  AGAIN 


I've  seen  a  dove,  storm-beaten,  far  at  sea; 
And  once  a  flower  growing  stark  alone 
From  out  a  rock;  I've  heard  a  hound  make  moan, 

Left  masterless:  but  never  came  to  me 
Ere  this  such  sense  of  creatures  torn  apart 

From  all  that  fondles  life  and  feeds  the  heart. 

Richard  Burton. 


CHAPTER  VI 


I  AM  CAUGHT  AGAIN 

OK  reaching  Stacyville  where  else  could  I  go 
but  back  to  Annis'  farm?  Of  course  I  did 
not  tell  him  all  that  had  happened;  but  he 
realized  that  I  had  failed  to  carry  out  my  threat 
of  seeing  a  lawyer,  and  so  made  no  end  of  ridiculing 
me.  Soon  after  my  return  George  Annis  disap- 
peared, and  to  this  day  I  have  no  way  of  telling 
what  became  of  him.  It  was  hinted  at  the  time  that 
he  had  become  so  deeply  involved  in  financial  and 
moral  difficulties  that  he  had  left  for  the  West.  I 
never  heard  more  of  him. 

The  farm  now  passed  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  John 
Carter.  For  a  year  or  more  Mrs.  Carter  had  acted 
as  general  housekeeper  and  manager  for  Annis,  and 
as  he  had  not  met  his  payments  to  her,  he  made  a 
deal  whereby  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carter  were  to  keep  the 
farm  for  a  certain  period.  It  was  now  time  for  the 
annual  planting  of  crops  and  John  Carter  asked  me 
to  remain  with  him,  promising  to  pay  me  bi-weekly. 
As  my  hopes  for  an  immediate  return  to  Italy  had 
vanished,  I  decided  to  work  for  him. 

1121] 


122  T  WE 


sou  I.    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


John  Carter  was  a  French-Canadian,  of  whom 
there  are  many  in  all  parts  of  Maine.  He  was  a 
short,  stubby  fellow  with  black  mustache;  quick  in 
decision  and  action ;  and  though  comparatively 
speaking,  an  uneducated  man,  he  was  very  shrewd 
and  had  a  keen  business  sense.  His  one  over- 
ruling passion,  as  will  be  presently  seen,  was  to  make 
money,  not  only  from  the  farm  but  also  from  a 
nefarious  traffic,  in  which  I  was  to  find  myself 
deeply  involved. 

About  three  nulcs  from  the  farm  was  a  logging 
camp  employing  about  five  hundred  men.  Shrewd 
John  Carter  realized  that  where  lumbermen  were, 
liquor  would  somehow  find  its  way,  and  from  the 
sale  of  liquor  some  one  would  reap  large  profits. 
Moreover,  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be 
the  one  to  derive  this  benefit. 

The  reader  will  recall  that  Maine  was  a  prohibi- 
tion state  long  before  the  Nineteenth  Amendment 
was  passed.  Although  it  was  not  impossible  to  get 
liquor  in  the  larger  cities,  such  as  Bangor,  Augusta, 
Waterville  and  Portland,  it  was  rather  difficult  to  do 
so  in  the  country  districts  and  elude  the  authorities, 
especially  if  the  sheriff  was  at  all  diligent  in  the 
performance  of  his  duties,  as  was  the  case  in  the 
county  in  which  Stacyville  was  located.  John  Carter 
knew  all  this  and  took  every  possible  precaution 
against  getting  caught.  One  day  he  suggested  that, 
as  liis  handwriting  was  very  poor,  he  would  like  to 


I    AM    CAUGHT  AGAIN 


123 


have  me  transcribe  some  letters  which  he  had  written. 
I  made  no  objection  and  copied  his  letters,  even 
signing  his  name  on  his  instruction.  As  time  wont 
on,  he  asked  me  to  do  other  things,  such  as  sending 
in  orders  to  a  wholesale  liquor  firm  in  Boston,  and 
sending  all  Money  Orders.  The  liquors  were  being 
shipped  to  my  name  in  his  care. 

He  took  the  additional  precaution  of  liiding  the 
liquors  very  carefully.  At  first  he  concealed  them 
in  an  unfurnished  attic,  access  to  which  was  had 
through  a  secret  trap  door  which  Carter  built  for 
the  purpose.  Later  he  hid  them  in  the  bam,  under 
the  floor,  buried  in  the  earth.  Still  later  he  took  me 
with  him  to  the  woods  bordering  the  farm,  where 
we  concealed  the  bottles  in  a  hole  which  he  had  dug. 

Now  all  this  secrecy  puzzled  me  considerably,  so 
one  day  I  asked  Carter  the  reason  for  it.  He  said 
he  was  afraid  the  lumbermen  might  come  in  large 
numbers  and,  overwhelming  us,  seize  the  liquors.  For 
the  same  reason  I  must  be  ready  at  a  moment's  notice 
to  hide  myself  so  they  could  not  find  me  and  force 
me  to  tell  them  where  the  liquors  were  hidden.  One 
night  he  actually  warned  me  to  go  to  tlie  woods  and 
hide,  for  he  feared  they  were  coming.  I  climbed  a 
tree  and  remained  there  all  night  long. 

Of  course  looking  back  upon  it,  I  can  see  through 
his  whole  scheme.  But  even  then  I  cannot  quite 
understand  how  human  nature  can  descend  to  such 
depths  as  to  take  such  a  beastly  advantage  of  an 


124  THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

innocent  youth.  I  was  at  this  time  about  twenty 
years  of  age,  inexperienced  and  entirely  unsuspect- 
ing, ignorant  of  the  laws  of  the  state  regarding  the 
sale  of  intoxicants,  or  of  the  sentiment  of  the  better 
classes  of  people  regarding  their  use.  So  I  went 
on,  unwittingly  conducting  the  nefarious  traffic 
under  the  supervision  of  Carter,  acting  as  a  tool 
in  his  greedy  and  lawless  hands. 

One  thing,  however,  troubled  me  considerably. 
In  Italy,  and  in  any  country  for  that  matter,  liquors 
are  sold  by  the  lowest  class  of  people,  although  they 
are  consumed  by  the  public  in  general.  It  wounded 
my  pride  deeply  to  realize  that  I  was  being  com- 
pelled, in  so  short  a  time  after  coming  to  America, 
to  descend  so  low  in  the  social  scale  as  to  be  selling 
liquors.  I  often  wondered  what  my  people  would 
think  of  me  if  they  knew  what  I  was  doing.  There 
was  one  consoling  thought,  and  that  was  that  it  need 
not  last  long.  Carter  was  paying  me  $15  per  month 
(he  could  well  afford  to  do  so),  and  in  a  little  while 
I  would  be  in  a  position  to  return  home.  My  rela- 
tives and  friends  need  never  know  anything  about  it. 
They  actually  do  not  know  to  this  day. 

This  infamous  game  continued  for  about  three 
months,  and  then  the  unexpected  happened,  and  I 
was  brought  to  realize  the  full  significance  of  it. 
About  the  middle  of  August  a  country  fair  was  held 
in  Millinocket.  Carter  had  laid  in  a  good  supply 
of  liquors,  and  one  evening,  loading  a  double  wagon, 


I   AM   CAUGHT  AGAIN 


125 


he  started  for  the  fair,  taking  me  with  him.  On 
nearing  the  town,  a  mile  or  so  from  the  place  where 
the  fair  was  being  held,  he  drove  into  a  patch  of 
woods  and  unloaded  the  liquors.  Then  he  proceeded, 
with  my  help,  to  bury  them.  He  gave  the  same 
reason  for  this  as  for  hiding  the  liquor  at  the  farm. 
He  instructed  me  to  take  out  one  bottle  at  a  time, 
and  when  I  saw  some  one  coming,  give  him  the  bottle 
upon  his  producing  a  dollar  and  a  quarter;  then 
take  out  the  next  bottle,  and  so  on.  I  wanted  to  go 
and  see  the  fair,  but  he  would  not  let  me,  saying  he 
had  to  go  himself  and  drum  up  trade. 

I  sat  in  the  woods  waiting  for  the  trade  to  come, 
and  soon  it  did  come.  In  the  course  of  three  or 
four  hours  I  had  sold  about  a  dozen  bottles.  Toward 
evening  I  saw  a  man  coming  toward  me  through  the 
woods  at  mad  speed.  I  took  him  to  be  a  thief,  and 
made  ready  for  an  encounter.  It  was  a  young  man 
whom  I  had  never  seen  before.  As  he  came  up  to 
me,  he  said,  "Run,  Frank,  run!"  I  thought  to 
myself,  "Go  on,  young  man,  you  cannot  fool  me," 
and  remained  unmoved.  When  he  saw  I  would  not 
stir  he  shouted:  "For  God's  sake,  man,  run.  The 
sheriff  is  coming."  "Sheriff?"  said  I  in  bewilder- 
ment. Then  like  a  flash  I  recalled  my  prison  expe- 
rience. But  why  should  they  take  me  now?  I  was 
at  a  loss  to  understand,  but  impressed  with  the 
earnestness  of  the  young  messenger,  I  took  myself 
deeper  into  the  woods.    Suspecting  foul  play,  I  did 


126  THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


not  go  very  far,  but  lying  low  on  the  ground,  I 
watched  to  see  what  was  going  on.  The  sheriff  did 
come,  I  recognized  him  from  his  badge,  but  he  did 
not  find  me  nor  the  liquor.  It  was  then  the  realiza- 
tion came  over  me  that  Carter  had  played  me  false. 
For  a  moment  I  thought  I  would  come  out  boldly 
and  tell  the  sheriff  the  whole  story.  But  the  thought 
of  my  previous  jail  experience  and  my  fear  of  Car- 
ter held  me  back. 

As  the  full  truth  dawned  upon  my  mind,  I  was 
seized  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  despair  than  ever 
before.  Again  I  saw  my  dream  of  home  fading  away 
into  oblivion.  I  went  from  spot  to  spot  aimlessly, 
wringing  my  hands  and  tearing  my  hair,  wondering 
what  would  become  of  me  next.  Finally  I  reached 
the  summit  of  a  knoll,  and  throwing  myself  flat  upon 
the  ground,  I  buried  my  face  in  the  earth.  What 
to  do  next.?  How  to  find  Carter.''  How  to  get  back 
to  Stacy ville.''  How  to  get  home.''  .  .  .  These  and 
a  thousand  other  questions  passed  through  my  be- 
wildered mind. 

The  sun  was  now  sinking  below  the  western 
horizon;  the  birds  were  chirping  their  good-night 
songs ;  the  sweet  odors  of  the  forest  were  wafted 
on  the  cool  evening  breezes ;  the  leaves  were  rustling 
gently.  Nature  was  at  peace,  silent.  But  in  my 
soxil  there  was  tumult,  anger,  despair,  longing.  My 
heart  was  throbbing  violently.  Moments  seemed 
like  years.    "As  there  are  years  in  which  man  does 


I   AM   CAUGHT  AGAIN 


127 


not  live  a  moment,  so  there  are  moments  in  which 
one  lives  a  lifetime."  In  those  moments  I  lived  years. 
I  was  lying  thus  on  the  ground  when  the  silence  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  approaching  hoofs.  I 
realized  I  was  not  far  from  the  road.  "Can  it  be 
Carter  returning  to  Stacyville,  without  even  trying 
to  find  me.'"'  I  thought.  In  any  case,  how  was  I 
to  discover  in  the  semi-darkness  whether  it  was  he, 
without  exposing  myself.  For  might  it  not  be  the 
sheriff  hunting  for  me?  Just  then  the  team  came 
to  a  full  stop  opposite  the  place  where  I  was  hiding. 
One  of  the  horses  neighed.  It  was  Dick,  my  Dick, 
the  horse  that  I  loved  best,  and  used  to  feed  sugar 
and  apples  to.  There  are  times  when  it  seems  that 
the  fidelity  of  a  dumb  animal  exceeds  by  far  the 
loyalty  of  human  beings.  At  least  it  seems  free 
from  selfishness.  In  his  instinctive  way,  Dick  had 
felt  my  presence  near,  and  I  knew  his  voice. 

In  a  subdued  tone  some  one  called,  "Frank  .  .  . 
Frank  .  .  ,"  It  was  Carter's  voice.  I  rose  and 
walked  out  to  the  road.  I  felt  a  bitter,  almost 
murderous  anger  toward  the  man.  It  is  at  such 
moments  that  the  inheritance  of  one's  early  training 
comes  into  play  with  unseen  power,  either  to  save 
him  from  possible  ruin  or  to  plunge  him  into  some 
disastrous  act.  And  I  am  profoundly  thankful  for 
the  restraining  power  and  the  sense  of  honor  which 
I  had  inherited,  which  withheld  my  hand.  Other- 
wise, I  dare  not  think  what  I  might  have  done  as  I 


128  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


approached  the  wagon  and  Carter.  I  poured  forth 
upon  him  all  the  vials  of  righteous  wrath;  I  called 
him  a  coward  and  a  fool,  a  traitor  to  God  and  man. 
Soon  calming  down,  however,  I  climbed  into  the 
wagon  beside  him,  and  we  started  on.  Carter  had 
recovered  the  liquor  wliich  was  hidden  in  the  woods, 
and  which  in  my  flight  I  had  abandoned. 

We  moved  on  in  the  deepening  darkness.  I  spoke 
not  a  word.  The  heavens  were  clear  and  dotted  with 
innumerable  stars,  whose  gleam  cast  a  pale  light 
upon  our  way.  Presently,  thick  clouds  began  to 
roll  up  before  us ;  a  thunderstorm  was  approaching. 
Lightning  flashes  cleaved  the  sky,  blinding  us  and 
frightening  the  horses.  Raindrops  began  to  fall.  A 
sudden  fear  seized  me.  Could  it  be  that  John  Carter, 
fearing  that  I  might  carry  out  my  threat  to  report 
him  to  the  authorities,  would  slay  me  on  this  desolate 
road,  under  cover  of  the  storm,  and  leave  my  body 
by  the  roadside  ?  I  knew  that  he  always  carried  a  re- 
volver. An  awful  shiver  passed  through  me.  What 
suggested  that  thought  I  cannot  say ;  thoughts 
are  said  to  pass  from  mirid  to  mind  in  unexpected 
ways. 

Just  then  we  approached  a  house.  Seizing  the 
opportunity,  I  suggested  that  as  it  was  raining  so 
hard,  we  should  ask  shelter  for  the  night.  He  as- 
sented, and  I  went  up  and  knocked  at  the  door.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  house  was  abandoned;  for 
twenty  minutes  or  more  we  knocked  and  knocked, 


1   AM   CAUGHT   AGAIN  129 

but  no  one  answered.  At  last  a  voice  was  heard 
from  within.  We  asked  for  shelter,  and  after  much 
argument,  the  man  opened  the  door.  He  had  a  gun 
in  his  hand.  He  finally  consented  to  house  us  for 
the  night,  and  caring  for  our  horses,  we  went  to 
bed.  By  that  time  I  had  regained  my  spirits,  and 
that  night  Carter  and  I  slept,  or  attempted  to  sleep, 
in  a  bed  actually  covered  with  vermin,  such  as  I 
had  never  seen  before  or  have  seen  since  in  all  my 
wanderings.  The  next  morning  we  drove  to  Stacy- 
ville. 

Life  was  now  becoming  hopeless  in  the  extreme. 
I  began  to  suspect  every  one  with  whom  I  came  in 
contact  and  to  doubt  whether  there  was  such  a  thing 
as  right  or  justice.  Here  I  had  worked  for  nearly 
a  year  in  an  attempt  to  earn  sixty  or  seventy  dollars 
to  return  home,  and  I  had  been  deceived  at  every 
turn,  and  those  whom  I  trusted  had  proved  to  be 
traitors.  I  had  made  sacrifices ;  I  had  been  sub- 
jected to  humiliation,  to  reach  a  worthy  goal,  only 
to  be  taken  advantage  of,  only  to  find  myself  penni- 
less, and  what  was  infinitely  worse,  to  be  forced  into 
a  life  of  lawlessness.  Those  who  would  understand 
the  so-called  waves  of  crime  and  lawlessness  among 
the  non-English  speaking  groups  in  this  country, 
need  to  know  something  of  experiences  such  as  these. 
Then  and  then  only  will  they  comprehend  why  help- 
less hmnan  beings,  facing  injustice  and  treachery, 
become   reckless ;   while    society   hurls    them  into 


130  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


dungeons  as  outcasts  or  criminals.  Now  that  it  is 
all  over,  I  am  thankful  for  these  experiences,  for 
they  have  taught  me  to  know  and  understand  the 
struggles  of  humanity,  especially  of  the  "foreigner" 
in  this  country. 

As  it  is  in  the  life  of  a  nation,  so  it  is  in  the  life  of 
an  individual.  At  every  critical  moment,  some  one 
rises  up  to  guide  and  direct.  In  the  life  of  a  nation 
it  is  the  statesman  who  rises  to  the  emergency;  in 
the  life  of  an  individual  it  is  often  some  humble  soul 
who  furnishes  the  needed  help  and  guidance.  Often 
it  is  a  woman ! 


A  MYSTEEIOtrS  EVENT 


For  a  bitter  night  and  day  they  shall  be  tried, 
They  shall  moan  within  the  cruel  hands  of  greed; 
But  ever  when  the  wrong  has  wrought  its  worst 
Shall  rise  Redeemers  answering  to  their  need. 
From  some  ba«kwood  Bethlehem 
Their  Christ  shall  come  to  them; 
Through  the  roaring  hells  of  Mammon,  by  the  path 
Of  mocking  Calvaries,  he  shall  pass  on  in  his  wrath 
Till  his  hands  have  hewn  the  way 
To  the  daylight  and  the  day. 

William  James  Dawton. 


CHAPTER  VII 


A  MYSTEKIOUS  EVENT 

IN  my  case  it  was  Mrs.  Carter's  mother.  The 
dear  old  lady  happened  to  be  visiting  her  daugh- 
ter at  this  time.  I  told  her  something  of  my 
early  life  and  of  the  bitter  struggle  I  had  been 
making  for  months  in  an  effort  to  make  my  way 
back  home.  She  listened  patiently.  One  day  she 
frankly  admitted  that  John  Carter  was  a  bad  man; 
she  would  advise  me  to  leave  him  at  once.  She  offered 
to  find  me  another  place  to  work  if  I  wished,  on  the 
one  condition  that  I  should  tell  no  one  that  she  had 
been  responsible  for  my  leaving,  as  Carter  might 
do  her  harm.  She  said  she  had  a  son  in  Sherman, 
six  miles  away,  and  she  would  try  to  get  me  a  job 
with  or  through  him.  I  took  her  friendly  advice  and 
awaited  developments. 

It  was  while  waiting  for  an  answer  from  Sherman 
that  an  event,  strange  from  the  purely  human  point 
of  view,  occurred.  As  it  helped  to  change  the  whole 
course  of  my  life,  I  will  simply  relate  it  here  and  will 
leave  it  to  the  reader  to  draw  his  own  conclusions. 
In  the  little  brick  schoolhouse  in  the  village  of 

[133] 


134  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

Stacyville,  a  zealous  young  Baptist  preacher  was 
holding  evangelistic  services.  One  evening  John 
Brown,  in  one  of  his  drunken  fits,  asked  me  to  "go 
to  church"  with  him.  We  have  already  seen  that 
my  religious  teaching  had  been  very  scanty,  and 
my  ideas  about  Protestantism  were  not  at  all  favor- 
able, as  I  had  been  taught  that  this  was  atheism 
and  the  worship  of  Satan.  Knowing  that  these 
were  Protestant  services,  I  refused  to  be  con- 
taminated by  attending.  I  did  not  go  that  night, 
nor  the  following,  but  Brown  kept  insisting;  so  on 
the  third  evening  I  went,  thinking  perhaps  it  would 
do  me  no  harm. 

Three  of  us  went  together.  We  seated  ourselves  in 
the  back  seats,  which,  later  I  learned,  evangelist 
preachers  call  "sinners'  seats."  I  listened  to  the 
songs  and  the  preaching,  though  I  could  not  under- 
stand what  the  preacher  was  saying,  nor  the  mean- 
ing of  the  songs.  But  during  the  meeting  something 
strange  gripped  the  very  soul  of  me.  What  really 
happened  I  cannot  tell,  but  something  very  real 
and  powerful  was  transpiring  in  my  consciousness. 
Although  neither  that  experience  or  any  subsequent 
one  made  me  very  religious,  in  the  strictly  Puritan 
sense  of  the  word,  yet  for  the  first  time  I  thought  of 
life  in  terms  of  service.  What  relation  the  expe- 
riences of  the  preceding  months  had  to  the  condi- 
tion which  made  me  susceptible  to  the  influence  of 
this  atmosphere  I  cannot  say.    It  is  exceedingly 


A    MYSTERIOUS   EVENT  135 

difficult  from  the  human  point  of  view  to  explain 
such  occurrences. 

A  week  or  so  after  this  an  answer  came  from 
Sherman  and  I  left  Stacyrille  to  see  it  no  more. 
Thus  came  to  an  end  one  of  the  strangest  and  most 
trying  periods  of  my  early  life  in  America,  George 
Annis,  whom  I  had  thought  a  real  American,  had 
turned  out  to  be  one  of  the  most  unscmpulous  per- 
sons I  have  ever  known.    His  gods  were  gluttonous 
eating,  drinking,  carousing,  gambling,  and  indulging 
in  all  kinds  of  questionable  practices.    John  Carter 
was  not  much  better.    Stacyville  I  had  found  to  be 
a  hotbed  of  all  forms  of  iniquity.    There  where  I 
was  to  get  my  first  glimpses  of  what  I  thought  was 
a  representative  American  community,  I  had  heard 
the  vilest  and  most  profane  language.    Men  and 
women  alike  indulged  in  all  kinds  of  questionable 
speech.    Words  possessing  perfectly  wholesome  con- 
notation were  given  the  filthiest  of  meaning,  and 
thus  a  part  of  the  English  language  was  forever 
soiled  for  me.    Unprofessional  prostitution  was  not 
uncommon.    Liquor  was  sold  in  open  defiance  of  the 
law.     Threats  of  murder  were  frequently  heard; 
lawlessness  in  game  hunting  was  the  boast  of  all; 
cattle  stealing  was  not  unknown,  and  there  in  that 
little  hamlet  of  not  over  five  hundred  souls  were  to 
be  found  some  of  the  lowest  microbes  of  our  national 
life.    In  that  community  I  had  been  subjected  to  the 
most  humiliating  insults  and  torments.    I  had  been 


136  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


the  prey  of  the  cheapest  and  lowest  dregs  of  human 
society.  Had  I  succeeded  in  getting  back  to  Italy 
at  this  stage  I  certainly  should  have  carried  with 
me  an  ugly  picture  of  America  and  things  American. 
And  I  do  not  hesitate  to  assert  that  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  "foreigners"  have  only  that  kind  of  a 
picture  of  America  to  look  upon  throughout  their 
lives. 


FIRST  GLIMPSES 
OF   IHE   KEAL  AMERICA 


A  little  cottage,  and  a  garden-nook, 

With  outlooks  brief  and  sweet 
Across  the  meadows,  and  along  the  brook, — 

A  little  stream  that  nothing  knows 
Of  the  great  sea  to  which  it  gladlj  flows, — 

Here  friendship  lights  the  fire,  and  every  heart. 
Sure  of  itself  and  sure  of  all  the  rest. 
Dares  to  be  true,  and  gladly  takes  its  part 
In  open  converse,  bringing  forth  its  best: 
And  here  is  music,  melting  every  chain 

Of  lassitude  and  pain: 
And  here,  at  last,  is  sleep  with  sUent  gifts. 

Henry  Van  Dyke. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


FIRST    GLIMPSES    OF    THE    REAL  AMERICA 

KIND  Mrs.  Boynton  (Mrs.  Carter's  mother) 
made  arrangements  whereby  I  was  to  go  to 
her  son's  home  in  Sherman  until  I  could  find 
work.  Accordingly,  walking  to  the  little  village,  I 
entered  a  new  environment,  in  which  I  was  to  get  the 
first  glimpses  of  the  real  American. 

Another  hard  experience,  however,  awaited  me 
there.  Mr.  Boynton  was  a  lumberman;  he  was  also 
a  heavy  drinker  and  a  gambler.  He  was  a  large 
man  with  hard,  pronounced  features,  brusque  in 
manner  and  a  veritable  brute  in  the  treatment  of  his 
wife,  who  was  a  little  woman,  and  looked  so  helpless 
by  his  side.  She  was  a  French-Canadian  by  birth 
and  possessed  all  the  versatility  and  warmth  of  the 
French,  together  with  the  common  sense  of  the 
American.  Her  husband  was  so  shiftless  that  she 
had  a  difficult  task  in  endeavoring  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together  for  herself  and  her  two  little  children. 
But  she  was  as  plucky  as  she  was  enduring  in  the 
face  of  the  hard  lot  which  was  hers. 

[  1391 


140  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

I  had  been  in  this  home  two  or  three  days  when 
Mr.  Boynton  asked  me  to  lend  him  some  money. 
How  he  found  out  that  I  had  a  Httle  money  I  do  not 
know.  I  had  managed  by  this  time  to  accumulate 
about  $50.  I  had  grown  so  suspicious  of  everybody 
that  I  hesitated  to  lend  even  one  cent.  Mr.  Boynton 
told  me,  however,  that  I  could  not  remain  in  his  home 
unless  I  loaned  him  $10.  Mrs.  Boynton,  perhaps 
fearing  that  her  husband  would  spend  the  money  on 
drinks  and  give  her  the  usual  beating  which  followed 
one  of  his  drinking  bouts,  called  me  aside  and  coun- 
selled me  not  to  give  him  a  cent.  She  further  ad- 
vised me  to  go  to  Houlton  and  deposit  all  I  had  in 
a  bank.  The  next  morning  I  disappeared,  and  going 
to  Houlton,  I  made  my  first  deposit  of  $40  in  an 
American  bank. 

On  my  return  the  next  day  I  witnessed  a  very 
pathetic  scene.  Either  Mrs.  Boynton  had  told  her 
husband  what  she  had  advised  me  to  do  or  he  sus- 
pected it.  He  threatened  to  kill  her  with  an  ax. 
The  plucky  little  woman  drew  a  revolver  and  for  a 
moment  I  thought  I  would  witness  a  murder.  For- 
tunately, however,  nothing  serious  happened. 

I  now  started  out  by  myself  to  find  work,  and 
this  time  fortune  really  favored  me.  I  went  to  the 
house  of  a  farmer,  Mr.  Frank  Richmond,  who  gave 
me  a  job,  and  so  at  last  I  found  myself  in  a  genuine 
American  home. 


THE   FIRST  GLIMPSES  OF  AMERICA  141 

Mr.  Richmond  was  a  typical,  native-born  New 
England  "Yankee."  He  was  a  man  of  genuine 
goodness  and  dignity.  He  wore  a  goatee  and  a 
straw  hat  similar  to  what  we  see  in  pictures  repre- 
senting Uncle  Sam.  Often  when  I  see  a  cartoon  of 
Uncle  Sam  I  think  of  Mr.  Richmond.  His  Sunday- 
go-to-meeting  clothes  were  also  of  the  type  worn 
by  our  national  relative.  Moreover,  he  possessed 
a  keen  sense  of  humor,  and  had  that  enduring  pa- 
tience on  the  one  hand  and  that  vehement  tenacity 
of  purpose  on  the  other  which  we  often  associate 
with  our  good  National  Uncle. 

Mr.  Richmond  was  usually  patient  with  me,  in- 
experienced as  I  was  in  farming  and  doing  farni 
chores,  but  I  soon  discovered  another  side  to  his 
nature.  One  day  he  put  me  to  work  splitting  wood 
in  the  wood-shed,  which  was  located  next  to  the 
kitchen.  Desiring  to  look  at  one  of  his  beautiful 
daughters  who  was  at  work  in  the  kitchen,  I  left  the 
wood  block  and  taking  my  ax,  I  began  to  split  wood 
on  the  doorstep,  near  the  kitchen  door.  In  doing  so 
I  made  a  few  dents  in  the  steps.  Mr.  Richmond  hap- 
pened to  come  in,  and  seeing  what  I  had  done,  he 
began  to  pour  forth  a  volley  of  the  choicest  epithets 
imaginable,  most  of  which  are  not  to  be  found  in  the 
dictionary.  But  I  had  a  staunch  defender,  Mr. 
Richmond's  eldest  daughter.  Doubtless  she  herself 
had  been  subjected  to  such  onslaughts  and  therefore 


142  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

knew  where  to  throw  in  the  first  lines  of  defense. 
She  came  to  my  rescue  and  a  lively  scene  ensued, 
which  diverted  the  rapid  fire  from  defenseless  me. 

Mrs.  Richmond  was  the  most  beautiful  character 
in  the  home,  and  possessed  a  deep  spiritual  loveliness. 
She  had  a  dignity,  a  refinement,  an  ease  of  manner, 
a  kindly  and  gentle  spirit  which  made  her  truly  "the 
first  lady  of  the  land"  to  me.  Hers  was  not  a  house 
in  which  people  merely  live,  but  a  true  home,  a  true 
American  home,  as  I  have  come  to  know  it,  in 
which  are  blended  order  and  cleanliness,  courtesy 
and  frankness,  consideration  and  ease,  simplicity 
and  sturdy  morality.  From  the  first  day  I  entered 
her  home  Mrs.  Richmond  made  me  feel  as  one  of  her 
family,  and  thus  a  new  day  dawned  in  the  history 
of  my  life  in  America. 

There  were  five  daughters  in  the  home,  aU  of  whom 
were  most  considerate  and  courteous  in  their  treat- 
ment of  me.  They  were  refined  and  possessed  that 
genuine  loveliness  and  reserve  which  makes  a  young 
woman  of  good  breeding  so  inexpressibly  attractive. 
Two  of  them  were  older  than  myself,  two  about  the 
same  age  as  I,  and  one,  sweet  little  Beatrice,  was 
about  seven  years  old  and  a  veritable  little  angel. 
Her  sweetness  bound  a  cord  around  my  heart  which 
still  holds  to  tliis  day.  In  the  months  which  fol- 
lowed, my  life  with  these  people  was  so  pleasant  that 
the  feeUng  of  abhorrence  I  had  come  to  have  for 
American  life  was  entirely  counteracted,  and  I  had 


THE   FIRST  GLIMPSES  OF  AMERICA143 


my  first  taste  of  the  real  America  I  came  to  love. 
What  would  have  been  impossible  in  an  Italian 
household  often  took  place  in  this  home.  I  as- 
sociated freely  with  the  young  women,  and  often 
one  of  them  was  left  alone  with  me.  I  was  not  sure 
which  one  was  queen  of  my  secret  affections. 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richmond  were  devout  and 
practical  Christian  people;  in  their  home  life  was 
practised  the  simple  religious  customs  of  saying 
prayer  at  meals,  and  of  family  Bible  reading  and 
prayer.  Their  religion  was  a  matter  of  everyday 
use  and  this  impressed  me  profoundly.  On  Sunday 
afternoons  the  entire  family  would  gather  around 
the  organ  and  have  a  religious  "sing."  If  seems  as 
if  I  can  still  hear  that  family  singing,  Mr.  Richmond 
with  his  rich  bass  voice  enjoying  it  immensely. 

On  Sundays  they  also  attended  church  service  and 
Sunday  School  regularly.  Naturally  they  took  me 
with  them,  and  though  I  was  a  so-called  Catholic  I 
had  no  objection  to  going  to  any  place  where  these 
splendid  people  went.  Some  of  my  first  experiences 
in  connection  with  attending  these  meetings  are 
worth  mentioning.  I  remember  very  well  my  first 
day  in  Sunday  School.  A  Mr.  Butterfield  was 
teaching  the  young  men's  class.  The  lesson  was  in 
the  Old  Testament  and  had  to  do  with  David.  The 
first  question  which  he  asked  was  directed  to  me: 
"Who  was  David.'"'  As  I  had  never  seen  a  Bible  in 
my  life  before  entering  the  Richmond  household  and 


144  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

did  not  even  know  what  a  Sunday  School  quarterly 
was,  the  question  naturally  embarrassed  me  greatly 
and  I  was  completely  dumfounded.  I  could  have 
told  him  very  much  better  the  way  to  the  Inferno — 
Dante's,  of  course — but  politeness  interfered. 

The  middle-aged  preacher,  who  came  from  Patten 
to  preach  in  our  country-side  schoolhouse,  I  liked 
very  much.  He  took  a  kindly  interest  in  me  from 
the  very  first.  His  pulpit  teachings,  however,  seemed 
very  strange  to  me.  From  his  preaching  and  from 
what  I  gathered  from  other  sources  it  seemed  that  it 
was  sinful  to  bathe,  to  shave,  to  manicure,  or  even 
to  laugh  on  Sunday.  To  take  a  walk  or  go  for  a 
ride  was  equally  wicked,  also  to  whistle  or  sing  any 
but  a  religious  tune.  To  read  other  than  a  rehgious 
book  was  not  a  good  thing.  A  novel  was  always  to 
be  condemned.  To  attend  a  gay  concert,  an  enter- 
tainment or  the  theater  was  very  wicked.  Now  all 
this  seemed  very  pecuHar,  but  desiring  to  be  like 
these  Puritans  while  with  them,  I  tried  my  best  to 
do  as  they  did,  and  believe  as  they  believed,  although 
I  must  admit  that  it  was  very  hard  work. 

My  second  Christmas  in  America  I  spent  with  the 
Richmonds.  They  had  the  usual  festivities  and  it 
was  in  that  home  I  saw  the  first  Christmas  tree.  I 
had  learned  of  the  custom  of  giving  presents  to 
others,  so  stealing  away  to  Patten  one  night,  I  spent 
five  dollars,  all  the  ready  money  I  had,  to  buy  a  pres- 


THE  FIRST  GLIMPSES  OF  AMERICiSl45 


ent  for  every  member  of  the  household.  I  did  not 
hang  the  presents  on  the  tree  but  hid  them  where 
each  could  find  his  own,  as  we  used  to  do  with  the 
Christmas  letters  we  wrote  to  father  and  mother  at 
home.  On  the  tree  there  was  a  little  present  for  me, 
however.  It  was  a  small  copy  of  the  New  Testament. 
I  was  much  pleased  with  it  and  immediately  set 
myself  to  the  task  of  reading  it,  not  so  much  because 
it  was  the  New  Testament  as  because  it  was  a  book 
in  English.  That  Testament  became  my  reading 
book  in  the  months  that  followed.  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  there  was  much  more  than  English 
in  it.  The  book  of  Romans  made  a  special  appeal 
to  me,  chiefly  because  it  made  me  feel  proud  to  have 
been  a  descendant  of  the  people  to  whom  the  writer 
had  addressed  the  letter.  The  twelfth  chapter, 
however,  went  much  deeper.  It  was  the  first  piece 
of  moral  and  religious  teaching  which  I  understood. 
That  passage  so  perfect  in  diction,  so  lofty  in  senti- 
ment, so  genuinely  practical  in  its  teaching,  appealed 
to  me  profoundly.  I  set  out  to  memorize  it  and  soon 
did  so.  Often  I  sat  up  late  into  the  night,  shivering 
in  my  cold  attic  room,  reading  and  memorizing  that 
chapter.  It  was  the  first  passage  of  any  nature  that 
I  learned  to  repeat  in  the  English  language,  and  I 
have  never  memorized  anything  better  since. 

This  memory  work  made  me  eager  to  learn  more, 
and  it  was  at  this  point  that  the  oldest  daughter  in 
the  Richmond  household  came  to  play  a  decisive 


146  THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

part  in  irij  life.  She  was  the  teacher  of  the  grade 
school  at  the  little  country  schoolhouse.  She  came 
to  have  a  deep  interest  in  me,  and  I  in  her.  She  it 
was  who  was  to  cause  the  great  awakeiimg  in 
my  life.  What  story  like  this  is  devoid  of  some 
romance.'*  She  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  hint 
at  the  great  subject  and  I  to  take  inspiration  from 
it.  I  hesitated  a  long  time,  not  knowing  what  con- 
sequences such  a  step  might  lead  to.  I  feared  that 
it  might  divert  me  from  my  purpose  to  return  home. 
Finally  I  plucked  up  courage.  It  was  late  on  a 
moonlight  evening.  I  was  still  in  doubt,  but  at  last, 
hesitatingly  as  a  boy  will,  I  offered  myself  to  her 
and  she  accepted  me  and  I  became  her  .  .  .  pupil. 
It  was  no  love  match,  nothing  of  the  kind,  but  only 
an  awakening  to  return  to  school  and  to  books. 


1 


**MY  BOT, 

YOU  OUGHT  TO 


Know  you  the  meaning  of  all  they  are  doing? 
Know  you  the  light  that  their  soul  is  pursuing? 
Know  you  the  might  of  the  world  they  are  making, 
This  nation  of  nations  whose  heart  is  awaking? 
What  is  this  mingling  of  peoples  and  races? 
Look  at  the  wonder  and  joy  in  their  faces! 

Alfred  Noyes. 


CHAPTER  IX 


"my  boy,  you  ought  to  go  to  schoox," 

HE  next  day  I  entered  Miss  Richmond's  school. 


It  was  about  six  years  since  I  had  left  school 


in  Italy.  Now  I  returned  to  it  of  my  own 
volition.  But  soon  both  Miss  Richmond  and  I  dis- 
covered that  there  were  other  factors  to  be  consid- 
ered than  my  willingness  to  go  to  school  and  her 
desire  to  teach  me.  The  school,  of  course,  was  held 
in  the  usual  one-roomed  schoolhouse  so  common  in 
the  country  districts.  What  happened  on  the  first 
and  second  days  the  reader  can  easily  imagine. 
Here  was  a  young  man  twenty  years  of  age  sitting 
in  the  midst  of  children  ranging  from  six  to  fourteen. 
Not  only  this,  but  he  knew  very  little  English  and 
had  been  away  from  school  so  long  he  hardly  knew 
how  to  handle  a  book.  The  test  was  too  great  for 
human  nature.  The  children  immediately  began  to 
poke  fun  at  the  new  pupil,  to  call  liim  names,  to 
throw  paper  wads  at  him  and  torment  him  in  every 
way,  until  neither  Miss  Richmond  nor  I  had  a  mo- 
ment of  peace  the  whole  day  long.  It  was  clear  from 
the  very  first  that  it  was  an  impossible  situation.  I 


[149] 


150  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

stood  it  for  about  a  week,  then  Miss  Richmond  sug- 
gested that  I  take  private  lessons  at  home,  to  which 
I  gladly  consented. 

It  was  then  that  I  set  out  to  learn  English  in  real 
earnest.  Miss  Richmond  sent  to  New  York  for  a 
Webster  Abridged  Dictionary  and  giving  me  a  copy 
of  Ainslee's  Magazine,  she  started  me  on  my  way 
to  master  the  language.  I  have  always  been  thank- 
ful that  Miss  Richmond  started  me  out  in  this  way. 
She  could  not  have  known  anything  about  the  so- 
called  "translation  method"  of  teaching  English  to 
foreigners.  If  slie  did,  she  must  have  realized  that  I 
would  learn  more  in  one  day  by  directly  mastering 
English  words,  phrases  and  idioms  than  I  would  in  a 
year  by  the  thumb-hunting  way  of  translation.  I 
have  discovered  that  the  translation  method  leads  a 
pupil  to  give  seventy -five  per  cent  of  his  attention  to 
his  native  tongue  and  the  remainder  to  English. 
What  he  needs  is  exactly  the  reverse.  In  the  way 
Miss  Richmond  taught  me  English  I  found  I  was  not 
only  acquiring  the  language  rapidly,  but  I  was  also 
learning  the  roots  of  words  and  through  that  means 
was  getting  at  the  soul  of  the  language. 

My  motive  now  was  fundamentally  different  than 
at  first,  as  I  faithfully  applied  myself  to  learning 
the  language.  At  first  I  had  desired  to  learn  English 
primarily  that  I  might,  on  my  return  to  Italy,  be- 
come an  interpreter ;  also  that  I  might  better  be  able 


"you  ought  to  go  to  school"  151 


to  earn  enough  money  to  take  me  back  to  Italy. 
Now  my  desire  to  learn  the  language  was  based  upon 
my  interest  in  the  family  with  whom  I  was  living. 
I  wanted  to  be  able  to  understand  these  people  who 
had  been  so  kind  and  considerate  to  me,  and  I 
wanted  to  be  able  to  convey  to  them  my  ideas  and 
my  feelings. 

Late  that  winter  I  left  the  Richmonds  intending 
to  return  to  them,  but  events  so  shaped  themselves 
that  I  did  not  go  back  again  to  that  beautiful  home. 
In  the  vicinity  of  Skowhegan,  Maine,  lived  the  But- 
terfield  brothers,  relatives  of  the  Richmonds.  They 
were  lumbering  on  their  own  account,  and  being  in 
need  of  help  and  knowing  that  Mr.  Richmond  had 
no  need  of  my  services  dui'ing  the  winter  months, 
they  requested  that  I  be  sent  down  to  them.  I  hesi- 
tated about  going,  but  as  I  was  told  that  I  was 
coming  back,  I  went. 

I  liad  been  with  the  Butterfields  about  a  week 
when  one  day,  it  was  the  10th  of  March,  1904i,  Mr. 
William  Butterfield  and  I  were  sawing  a  log  which 
we  had  felled  the  night  before.  I  was  pulling  one  end 
of  the  cross-cut  saw,  he  the  other,  when  all  of  a 
sudden,  Mr.  Butterfield  stopped  and  looked  at  me 
intently.  As  he  did  so  the  village  clock  in  the  dis- 
tance was  ringing  seven  strokes,  which  echoed 
through  the  frosty  air  of  that  March  morning.  As 
if  struck  by  a  new  thought,  Mr.  Butterfield,  with 
emphasis,  said  to  me:  "Frank,  my  boy,  you  ought 


152  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

to  go  to  school."  That  and  no  more.  I  made  no  an- 
swer and  we  went  on  with  our  work.  But  his  words 
kept  echoing  through  my  consciousness  as  a  sort  of 
challenge.  How  could  I  go  to  school.''  I  was  going 
back  to  Italy !  Then  I  had  no  money  and  no  friends 
to  help  me  out. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  a  week  or  so  after  this  in- 
cident, I  went  up  to  my  room  and  throwing  myself 
upon  my  bed  I  fell  asleep.  On  awakening,  I  saw 
a  copy  of  the  Lewiston  Journal  lying  on  a  chair 
alongside  the  bed  and  reaching  for  it,  I  began  to 
turn  the  pages  casually.  My  eyes  soon  became 
riveted  upon  one  page.  On  it  was  printed  the  story 
of  an  Italian  lad,  who  starting  as  an  illiterate,  had 
entered  school,  had  graduated,  gone  to  a  theological 
seminary  and  had  become  a  successful  pastor.  It 
seemed  like  a  bugle  call  sounding  a  note  of  inspira- 
tion. I  remembered  Mr.  Butterfield's  words.  I  arose, 
went  to  the  closet,  packed  up  my  few  belongings  and 
with  calm  resolution  determined  to  go  to  school  at 
once.  How  I  was  to  get  there,  how  I  was  to  pay 
my  way,  I  did  not  know ;  I  only  felt  an  absolute  cer- 
tainty that  somehow  I  would  go  to  the  school  where 
the  poor  Italian  lad  of  the  story  had  gone. 

It  was  no  small  task  which  I  had  unconsciously 
set  before  me.  I  went  downstairs  and  told  the 
Butterfield  brothers  of  my  decision.  Much  to  my 
surprise,  they  began  to  ridicule  the  idea.    To  think 


**YOTT  OUGHT  TO  GO  TO  SCHOOL"  153 


of  my  starting  off  to  school  without  money !  It  was 
true  I  had  only  about  fifty  dollars,  all  I  had  saved 
in  the  year  and  a  half  I  had  been  in  this  country, 
but  I  reasoned,  "Did  not  this  Italian  boy  go  to 
school  without  even  a  cent  of  money?"  When  I 
reminded  Mr.  Butterfield  of  the  words  he  had  spoken 
to  me  only  two  weeks  before,  he  answered,  "Sure,  I 
told  you  to  go  to  school,  Frank,  but  you  must  save 
some  money  first."  His  reasoning  was  in  vain; 
nothing  could  turn  my  mind  from  my  resolve.  I 
would  enter  school  at  any  cost,  and  now. 

In  the  face  of  the  discouraging  attitude  the  But- 
terfields  had  taken  toward  the  proposition,  I  now 
decided  to  go  to  the  village  and  endeavor  to  enlist 
the  help  of  the  pastor  of  one  of  the  churches.  I 
attended  the  prayer  meeting  that  very  evening,  and 
at  the  close  I  asked  the  pastor  if  I  might  not  have 
his  counsel  on  a  matter.  He  took  me  to  the  parson- 
age and  I  told  him  of  my  desire  to  attend  school.  I 
asked  him  if  he  would  not  be  so  good  as  to  write 
the  president  of  the  school  a  letter  asking  him  to 
give  me  an  opportunity  to  work  my  way.  He  said, 
"I  am  sorry  I  can't  do  that;  I  don't  know  you  and 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  recommend  you."  He  gave  me 
the  name  and  address  of  the  president,  however,  and 
suggested  that  I  write  him  myself,  and  with  that  he 
dismissed  me.  I  was  frozen  to  the  core  by  his  stiff 
attitude  and  as  I  went  out  into  the  night  my  hopes 
began  to  flicker. 


1.'54the  soul  of  an  immigrant 


My  original  determination  was  soon  renewed, 
however,  and  I  decided  to  take  another  tack.  I 
would  write  to  the  Italian  pastor  whose  story  had 
awakened  my  interest  to  enter  school ;  he  would  cer- 
tainly help  me.  So  I  wrote  him  a  letter, — a  mixture 
of  Italian  and  English, — and  for  a  week  I  waited 
impatiently  for  his  answer.  Daily  I  would  go  to  the 
post-office,  and  recei^'ing  no  mail  in  the  morning,  I 
would  loiter  about  the  streets  or  in  the  public  library 
while  waiting  for  other  mails  to  arrive.  Often  I 
would  wait  for  hours  at  the  same  spot,  on  the  comer 
near  the  post-office. 

I  must  have  aroused  the  interest,  if  not  the  sus- 
picions, of  a  policeman,  for  one  morning  he  came 
up  to  me  and  began  to  ask  me  all  kinds  of  questions : 
who  I  was,  where  I  lived,  what  was  my  nationality, 
my  trade,  and  what  was  I  doing  on  that  street  corner 
so  often.  I  answered  his  questions  and  told  him 
that  I  was  waiting  for  a  letter  from  a  friend.  He 
told  me  to  "move  along"  and  I  did.  Finally  one 
day  the  long-expected  letter  came.  It  was  a  very 
formal,  typewritten  note,  in  English;  it  gave  the 
name  and  address  of  the  school  and  advised  me  to 
write  to  the  president  telling  him  of  my  desires, 
though  he  did  not  give  me  the  name  of  the  president. 
The  last  part  of  the  note  was  devoted  to  a  piece  of 
advice.  In  my  letter  to  him  I  had  written  "I  am 
sorrow  to  trouble  you,"  and  his  advice  was  that  I 
should  write  "I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you."  That 


"you  ought  to  go  to  school"  155 


was  the  most  specific  part  of  the  letter.  Again  I 
felt  somewhat  bewildered  and  once  more  I  found 
myself  loitering  on  the  street  corner,  this  time  star- 
ing into  the  air. 

Just  then  the  policeman  came  along  and  I  told 
him  I  had  received  the  letter.  I  must  have  shown 
my  disappointment  and  anxiety.  He  asked  me  to 
go  with  him;  my  previous  prison  experience,  how- 
ever, made  me  suspicious,  and  I  hesitated,  but  finally 
followed  him,  not  knowing  where  he  would  lead  me 
to,  and  for  that  reason  keeping  at  arm's  length.  I 
feared  he  might  play  a  trick  on  me  as  the  other 
policeman  had  done.  We  went  on,  and  for  a  few 
moments  I  thought  my  fears  were  going  to  be  real- 
ized, for  he  was  heading  for  police  headquarters. 
Could  it  be  that  one  could  be  put  into  jail  for  want- 
ing to  go  to  school? 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION 
AND  ITS  MEANING 


What  constitutes  a  school? 
Not  ancient  halls  and  ivy-mantled  towers, 

Where  dull  traditions  rule 
With  heavy  hand  youth's  lightly  springing  powers; 

Not  spacious  pleasure  courts, 
And  lofty  temples  of  athletic  fame. 

Where  devotees  of  sports 
Mistake  a  pastime  for  life's  highest  aim; 

Not  fashion,  nor  renown 
Of  wealthy  patronage  and  rich  estate; 

No,  none  of  these  can  crown 
A  school  with  light  and  make  it  truly  great. 

But   masters,   strong   and  wise. 
Who  teach  because  they  love  the  teacher's  task. 

And  find  their  richest  prize 
In  eyes  that  open  and  in  minds  that  ask. 

Ah,  well  for  him  who  gains 
In  such  a  school  apprenticeship  to  life: 

With  him  the  joy  of  youth  remains 
In  later  lessons  and  in  larger  strife! 

Henry  Van  Dyke. 


CHAPTER  X 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION  AND  ITS  MEANING 

I WAS  about  to  turn  on  my  heels  and  run  for  the 
country  and  the  Butterfields'  when  he  beckoned 
gently.  I  stepped  in,  still  seriously  in  doubt 
as  to  the  possible  outcome.  Once  inside  the  police 
station,  I  realized  that  he  meant  to  transact  other 
business  than  placing  me  in  jail.  He  sat  down  on 
one  side  of  a  big  table  and  I  on  the  other.  He  asked 
me  what  I  wanted  to  write  to  the  president  of  the 
school.  I  told  him:  I  was  a  poor  boy;  I  had  no 
money ;  I  wanted  to  go  to  school ;  I  had  read  about 
the  poor  Italian  boy  who  had  gone  to  this  school, 
and  wanted  a  chance  to  work  my  way.  The  police- 
man wrote  it  down.  The  letter  was  brief  and  to  the 
point.  He  read  it  over  to  me,  his  face  beaming  with 
a  smile  of  satisfaction.  Then  he  asked  me  to  copy  it 
in  my  own  hand.  I  did  so,  and  we  mailed  the  letter. 
Then  the  policeman  took  me  to  a  good  boarding- 
house  where  I  stayed  while  waiting  for  an  answer. 
Each  day  I  went  to  the  post-office  and  met  my 
policeman  friend  on  the  corner  or  at  the  police  sta- 

(1591 


160  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

tion  to  report  results.  A  week  passed  and  no  an- 
swer. One  morning  he  said,  "Something's  gone 
wrong,  my  boy.  You'd  better  go  on.  The  president 
sure'U  give  you  a  chance." 

That  same  afternoon,  with  a  suitcase  of  belong- 
ings and  an  old  brown  overcoat  over  my  arm,  I  was 
off  for  school.  Officer  Allen,  for  that  was  the 
policeman's  name,  took  me  to  the  depot,  loaned  me 
his  mileage ;  gave  me  an  addressed  envelope  for  its 
return ;  put  me  on  the  right  train ;  told  the  con- 
ductor my  story  and  asked  him  to  be  sure  to  put 
me  off  at  Readfield.  He  stood  and  waved  "good-by" 
as  the  train  puUed  out  of  the  station.  What  a 
friend  that  policeman  was  to  me !  What  a  friend 
every  policeman  could  be  to  the  "foreigner"  and 
what  a  service  he  could  render  to  our  country ! 

What  had  become  of  my  letter  to  the  president 
and  why  had  I  received  no  answer.''  It  will  be  re- 
called that  the  Skowhegan  minister  had  declined  to 
write  a  letter  for  me  and  that  he  had  given  me  the 
name  and  address  of  the  president  verbally.  When 
officer  Allen  addressed  the  envelope  for  me  I  dic- 
tated "Mr.  W.  F.  Merry,"  as  I  had  understood  the 
minister  to  say,  instead  of  Mr.  W.  F.  Berry,  Kent's 
Hill,  Maine.  Accordingly,  the  letter  was  not  de- 
livered. Six  months  later,  desiring  to  discover  what 
had  become  of  it,  I  made  inquiries  and  found  it 
buried  in  the  post-office. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  state  that  the  minister 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION 


161 


who  had  refused  to  help  me  later,  upon  learning  of 
my  success  in  school  and  noting  that  my  name  was 
receiving  some  slight  mention  in  the  press,  claimed 
the  credit  of  having  directed  me  to  the  school.  His 
wife  even  published  an  article  regarding  the  matter. 

At  about  noon,  on  April  17,  1904,  I  stepped 
off  the  train  at  Readfield,  four  miles  from  the 
Maine  Wesleyan  Seminary,  my  objective.  I  was 
told  there  was  a  stage  which  went  "up  the  hill" 
and  that  it  would  cost  only  fifty  cents  to  ride.  As 
I  had  exactly  seventy-five  cents  in  my  pocket  and 
did  not  know  what  awaited  me  at  the  end  of  my 
journey,  I  decided  to  walk.  Taking  my  suitcase  in 
one  hand  and  my  overcoat  in  the  other  I  started  on 
my  upward  road.  As  I  passed  by  the  stage  I  heard 
a  man  say,  "Fools  ain't  all  dead  yet,"  but  did  not 
realize  then  that  it  was  directed  at  me.  I  had  gone 
a  short  distance  from  the  depot  when  I  saw  a  wagon 
coming  out  from  a  house,  headed  toward  the  hill. 
To  make  certain  that  I  was  going  in  the  right  direc- 
tion I  made  inquiries  of  the  driver.  He  said  he  too 
was  going  to  "the  hill"  and  would  be  glad  to  have  me 
ride  with  him.  I  climbed  in  alongside  of  him.  At 
once  I  felt  a  sense  of  security  and  that  I  had  found 
a  friend.  He  asked  me  about  myself  and  I  told  him 
my  story.  He  was  at  once  interested  and  offered 
words  of  encouragement  and  helpfulness.  Weeks 
afterward  I  learned  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  late 
Dr.  Chase,  former  president  of  the  school.    He  gave 


162  THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


me  much  information  and  advice  and  even  took  me 
to  the  office  of  the  president  and  introduced  me  to 
Professor  H.  E.  Trefetheren,  subsequently  professor 
of  Greek  at  Colby  College,  and  at  that  time  acting 
president  of  the  school. 

From  the  moment  I  set  foot  on  the  "Hill"  I  felt 
an  atmosphere  of  friendliness  and  helpfulness. 
Professor  Trefetheren  at  once  endeavored  to  find 
work  and  shelter  for  me.  By  night  I  had  my 
first  job.  The  work  was  to  saw  three  cords  of 
wood  which  was  so  dry  that  every  boy  who  had 
tried  it  had  given  up  in  disgust.  I  received  $3.50 
per  cord  for  sawing  and  splitting.  It  took  me  about 
two  weeks.  I  was  told  years  afterward  that  a  woman 
who  saw  me  at  this  task  remarked  that  in  that  boy 
was  good  timber  for  an  American.  I  hope  this  was 
true,  but  I  certainly  would  not  wish  to  be  sawing 
that  kind  of  timber  all  my  life. 

The  day  following  my  arrival  I  was  hard  at  work 
on  my  studies  in  the  preparatory  class.  I  was  very 
happy  in  my  new  environment.  But  a  few  days  later 
my  troubles  began  to  brew.  Late  one  afternoon, 
much  to  my  astonishment,  a  young  lady  student 
came  to  me  after  class  and  very  pleasantly  invited 
me  to  take  a  walk  with  her.  It  was  very  sudden,  and 
it  embarrassed  me  greatl3^  But  thinking  it  the 
custom  in  this  country  for  a  young  lady  to  make 
such  advances,  I  made  no  objection  but  meekly 
followed  her  lead  "armed  and  well  prepared."  We 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION 


163 


walked  toward  the  lower  part  of  the  campus.  We 
came  to  a  large  tree  and  sat  down  under  it. 
The  matter  was  growing  serious !  She  started  the 
conversation  by  saying  something  about  my  knife. 
Now  I  have  already  related  how  I  had  lost  my  beauti- 
ful knife  on  my  fii*st  excursion  into  the  woods,  a 
knife  which  had  come  down  to  me  as  a  heirloom.  It 
seemed  very  mysterious  to  me  that  she  should  know 
anything  about  my  knife,  but  thinking  that  perhaps 
in  some  strange  way  she  had  come  into  possession 
of  it,  I  began  describing  it  to  her :  a  black-handled 
knife  with  two  blades  and  a  silver  seal  on  the  handle. 
She  appeared  to  be  puzzled  and  insisted  that  I  had 
the  knife.  At  last,  apparently  unconvinced  by  my 
assertion  that  I  had  lost  my  knife,  she  led  me  back 
to  the  building,  and  that  was  the  end  of  my  romantic 
adventure ! 

It  was  the  custom  for  all  the  students  to  attend 
the  Sunday  evening  prayer-meeting.  The  following 
Sunday  I  went  along  with  the  rest.  At  the  close  of 
the  meeting  as  I  was  about  to  go  the  pastor  called 
me  aside  and  asked  if  he  might  not  speak  to  me  in 
private  about  an  important  matter.  I  loitered  while 
the  students  were  passing  out,  and  I  noticed  that 
they  looked  back  at  me  rather  curiously.  The  doors 
had  glass  panels,  and  after  all  had  passed  out  I  saw 
some  of  the  girls  (oh,  the  girls!)  looking  thi-ough 
the  glass. 

The  minister  began  to  speak  in  sad  and  serious 


164  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

tones.  "In  this  country,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  cus- 
tomary to  carry  knives."  The  moment  he  uttered 
the  word  "knife"  my  mind  went  back  to  ray  lost 
knife  and  to  the  incident  of  the  walk  with  the  young 
lady.  As  he  proceeded  with  words  of  counsel  and  ad- 
monition, he  used  the  word  "stiletto"  synonomously 
with  the  word  "knife."  There  appeared  to  be  some 
uncertainty  in  his  mind  as  to  just  what  it  was,  but 
one  thing  was  certain:  I  had  a  weapon  and  I  was 
an  Italian.  That  was  enough.  All  Italians  carry 
weapons  and  are  dangerous  creatures,  according  to 
the  common  American  beHef.  He  assured  me  that 
he  harbored  no  ill  feeUngs  toward  me,  but  he  made 
it  plain  that  it  was  not  a  good  thing  to  carry  a 
weapon  and  that  since  coming  to  the  school  I  had 
caused  great  disturbance  by  openly  carrying  a 
"stiletto."  He  further  stated  that  the  girls  (fragile 
little  creatures !)  had  refused  to  be  in  classes  which  I 
was  attending,  while  the  boys  had  sworn  that  they 
had  seen  me  brandishing  the  dreadful  weapon.  "Un- 
less you  give  it  up,"  he  continued,  "you  will  be 
obliged  to  leave  school." 

I  was  dumfounded  and  completely  mystified. 
True,  I  did  actually  have  the  weapon  on  me, 
but  of  course  I  would  not  admit  it!  Would 
you  reader,  had  3'ou  been  in  my  place A  tense 
moment  followed.  Finally  the  pastor,  to  clinch 
the  matter,  said  that  he  himself  had  seen  it  a 
few  moments  before,  and  for  that  reason  had  asked 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION  165 

me  to  remain.  If  I  did  not  mind,  he  would  at  least 
like  to  look  at  it.  The  point  of  it  was  even  then  to  be 
seen  sticking  out  of  my  vest  pocket,  shining  brightly 
against  a  blue  silk  handkerchief.  I  could  deny  it 
no  longer.  Taking  hold  of  the  lapel  of  my  coat,  he 
pulled  it  open,  reached  for  the  dreaded  weapon  and 
pulled  it  out.    All  was  up  with  me! 

It  was  an  aluminum  comb,  conveniently  pointed 
at  one  end  to  be  used  for  manicuring,  and  not  for 
carving  out  human  hearts !  It  did  look  very  much 
like  a  stiletto.  I  now  saw  through  it  all.  How 
the  good  parson  must  have  felt  as  he  held  it  in  his 
hand !  So  far  as  I  know,  no  explanation  was  ever 
made  of  the  matter,  and  to  this  day,  I  venture  to 
say,  some  of  my  schoolmates  still  remember  the 
dreadful  days  when  they  went  to  school  with  an 
Italian  who  carried  a  stilletto  with  which  he  in- 
tended to  carve  out  hearts,  both  men's  and  maidens' ! 

A  friend  of  mine  once  remarked  that  it  would  have 
been  only  fair  if  the  authorities  had  made  a  state- 
ment relative  to  the  true  nature  of  the  supposed 
weapon.  For  my  part,  however,  I  have  always 
looked  back  upon  that  incident  with  much  merriment. 

The  following  incident  I  wish  to  narrate  as  illus- 
trating how  I  first  became  aware  of  the  American 
trait  of  open  and  fair  play.  It  was  at  the  beginning 
of  the  next  school  year,  when  as  a  "soph"  I  had 
begun  to  "feel  my  oats."    As  I  have  stated.  Dr. 


166  THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


W.  F.  Berry  was  the  president  of  the  school.  I 
consider  him  one  of  the  noblest  men  it  has  been  my 
privilege  to  know  in  America.  I  admired  him  very 
greatly  and  always  listened  very  attentively  to  the 
brief  addresses  he  used  to  make  at  chapel.  These 
little  talks  were  a  great  inspiration  to  me.  They 
were  so  simple,  so  earnest  and  so  practical  that  I 
understood  almost  every  word  of  them.  He  gen- 
erally spoke  on  matters  of  morality  and  good 
conduct,  and  in  the  course  of  his  address  he  would 
frequently  make  use  of  the  phrase,  "a  punctilious 
regard  for  the  rights  of  others."  This  phrase  had 
become  a  sort  of  byword  with  some  of  the  boys,  who 
would  repeat  it  in  making  sport  of  the  president. 
All  this  did  not  set  well  with  me.  In  fact,  it  would 
so  exasperate  me  at  times  that  I  had  hard  work  to 
keep  from  striking  some  of  the  offenders.  Next  to 
me  was  rooming  a  "freshy"  who  took  special  delight 
in  mocking  tlie  president,  especially  in  my  pi'esence, 
because  he  knew  how  it  affected  me.  He  would 
frequently  repeat  the  phrase  in  my  hearing,  and  as 
frequently  I  did  not  hesitate  to  let  him  know  how 
I  felt  about  the  matter.  I  stood  it  as  long  as  I  could. 
Finally,  one  day  I  assembled  a  group  of  "sophs" 
and  led  a  raid  upon  the  offending  "freshy."  Know- 
ing me  to  be  the  leader  of  the  gang,  he  naturally 
turned  upon  me  with  a  vengeance.  In  the  scuffle 
which  ensued  in  his  room,  I  reached  for  a  pitcher  and 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION  167 

dealt  him  a  blow  upon  the  head,  which  broke  the 
pitcher  and  drew  blood. 

I  realized  that  I  had  made  a  bad  break.  Ashamed 
to  look  any  one  in  the  face,  I  remained  locked  in  my 
room  for  three  days,  an  upper-class  friend  bringing 
food  to  me.  I  was  conscious  that  however  justified 
I  might  be,  this  was  a  serious  error.  On  the  third 
day,  Professor  J.  O.  Newton,  who  in  the  president's 
absence  from  the  school  had  charge  of  the  adminis- 
tration, came  to  my  room  and  informed  me  that  it 
had  been  decided  that  I  should  leave  the  school  unless 
I  was  willing  to  make  a  public  apology.  While  I  was 
really  not  very  sorry  for  having  risen  in  righteous 
indignation  against  the  rascal,  I  agreed  to  make  a 
public  apology.  That  evening,  supper  over,  the 
girls  were  dismissed  from  the  dining  room  and  the 
boys  asked  to  remain.  In  a  few  words  Professor 
Newton  explained  the  situation  and  then  gave  me  a 
chance  to  speak.  It  was  a  severe  test  for  me;  in  all 
my  life  I  had  never  had  such  an  ordeal  to  face.  But 
I  stood  up  and  frankly  apologized.  The  boys  re- 
sponded with  a  great  ovation  which  made  it  plain 
that  I  had  touched  the  right  chord.  We  were  dis- 
missed and  the  incident  ended  there. 

But  the  way  the  matter  had  been  handled  im- 
pressed me  greatly.  In  my  home  town,  an  occurrence 
of  this  character  would  surely  have  started  a  feud, 
at  least  among  the  boys.    But  here  the  straight- 


168  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


forwardness,  the  fair  play  and  the  frankness  which 
characterized  the  whole  incident  appealed  to  me  as 
standards  of  conduct  worthy  of  recognition  and  of 
acceptance. 

I  remained  at  the  Maine  Wesleyan  Seminary  for 
three  years,  during  which  time  I  passed  through 
some  unpleasant  experiences  on  account  of  my 
foreign  birth.  A  few  students  felt  no  hesitation  in 
honoring  me  with  a  "dago"  now  and  then,  but  this 
was  not  at  all  general.  A  far  larger  number  showed 
a  kindly  and  encouraging  attitude  toward  me. 
There  was  one  instance,  however,  in  which  a  number 
of  my  fellow-students  showed  ill  feehng  because  I 
was  a  "foreigner."  This  was  during  my  third  year 
in  school,  when  the  cast  for  the  senior  play  was 
chosen.  The  "Senior  Play"  was  considered  the 
greatest  event  of  the  whole  school  year.  Each  year 
the  cast  was  chosen  by  the  faculty  from  such  mem- 
bers of  the  senior  class  as  were  deemed  most  worthy. 
It  was  always  considered  a  great  honor  to  be  so 
chosen.  That  year  the  "Merchant  of  Venice"  was 
to  be  presented  and  the  faculty  was  generous  enough 
to  assign  to  me  the  part  of  Shylock.  This  caused 
a  furore  among  some  of  the  seniors  on  two  scores. 
In  the  first  place  I  was  not  legitimately  a  senior. 
I  had  entered  only  three  years  before,  but  by  dint 
of  constant  application  and  hard  work  I  had  man- 
aged to  gain  one  year  and  was  to  graduate  the  fol- 
lowing Commencement.     This   placed  me  in  the 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION 


169 


senior  class  by  adoption,  but  not  by  inheritance. 
Some  of  the  seniors  were  very  reluctant  to  adopt 
me  and  threatened  for  a  while  to  go  on  strike.  The 
second  reason  was  that  I  was  a  "foreigner."  Cer- 
tain members  of  the  class  did  not  hesitate  to  let  me 
know  how  they  felt  about  the  matter.    One  boy  did 

not  mince  words :    "You  d  dago !    You  have 

no  right  to  play  that  part  or  to  be  in  the  senior 
play  at  all." 

It  has  always  been  my  philosophy,  when  anything 
of  this  kind  occurs,  to  take  it  as  it  comes,  and  dis- 
miss it  from  my  mind.  In  this  case  I  gritted  my 
teeth,  pulled  the  straps  of  my  harness  tighter,  and 
bending  to  the  load,  I  resolved  to  prove  whether  or 
not  I  was  worthy  of  the  honor  which  without  my 
seeking  had  been  bestowed  upon  me.  For  the  next 
two  or  three  weeks  I  worked  almost  continuously 
night  and  day,  until  I  had  actually  memorized  every 
word  of  the  play.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  I  had  only 
begun  to  learn  English  three  years  before,  I  do  not 
myself  see  how  I  managed  to  do  it.  I  am  certain  I 
could  never  do  it  again !  It  was  the  urge  of  achieving 
a  goal  for  a  definite  purpose  that  drove  me  on. 

My  laborious  task,  however,  brought  its  own  re- 
ward. It  immediately  won  me  the  good  will  of  my 
fellow  players.  When  we  came  to  the  first  rehearsals 
the  majority  of  the  participants,  as  usual,  had  not 
learned  their  parts,  while  I  had  thoroughly  memo- 
rized theirs  as  well  as  my  own.    Instead  of  their  re- 


170  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

senting  this,  they  began  to  show  a  friendly  attitude. 
As  the  rehearsals  proceeded,  and  even  on  the  very 
night  the  play  was  rendered,  I  jokingly  acted  as 
walking  prompter,  often  putting  into  the  mouths  of 
the  other  players  the  words  of  their  parts,  saying 
good-naturedly:  "Speak  the  speech  I  pray  you  as 
I  pronounce  it  to  you."  I  must  own  that  the  atmos- 
phere had  completely  changed  before  we  were 
through,  and  my  fellow  students  showed  an  entirely 
different  spirit. 

The  next  issue  of  the  school  monthly  had  a  flat- 
tering notice.  I  quote  it  here,  because  it  so  well 
illustrates  ray  point: 

"The  character  of  Shylock  deserves  special  men- 
tion. Mr.  Panunzio  took  this  part  and  it  was  cer- 
tainly very  finely  done.  The  remark  has  even  been 
heard  from  a  critic  in  such  matters  that  it  has  sel- 
dom been  done  better  even  by  professionals. 

"Perhaps  too  much  cannot  be  said  in  praise  of 
the  way  in  wliich  the  acting  was  kept  up  to  the  end. 
Even  when  Shylock  was  not  speaking  he  still  kept 
the  same  appearance,  mumbled  to  himself,  cast  looks 
of  hatred  on  those  whom  he  regarded  as  enemies  and 
never  allowed  us  to  remember  that  he  was  Mr. 
Panunzio  and  not  Shylock  himself.  The  general 
verdict  seems  to  be  that  this  part  was  remarkably 
well  done  and  deserves  all  the  praise  it  can  possibly 
have." 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION  171 


Wliile  in  the  outer  world  these  praises  were  sound- 
ing, in  my  inmost  consciousness  something  much 
more  vital  was  taking  place.  This  was  the  first 
real,  tangible  encouragement  I  had  I'eceived  since 
that  fatal  night,  four  and  a  half  years  before,  when 
I  had  left  the  ship.  As  I  reflected  upon  it,  I  began 
to  realize  that,  even  with  the  serious  handicap  placed 
upon  me  by  my  foreign  birth  and  lack  of  language, 
work  would  win;  that  I  was,  after  all,  the  "captain 
of  my  soul."  I  really  began  to  believe,  what  I  had 
seriously  questioned  before,  that  if  a  "foreigner" 
really  tries  to  make  good,  recognition  will  come.  I 
further  realized  that  with  the  better  classes  of 
Americans,  such  as  my  teachers  were,  "a  man's  a 
man  for  a'  that."  My  participation  in  the  play  and 
the  favorable  comment  it  had  received  were  in  them- 
selves quite  unimportant.  And  yet  they  would  have 
been  significant  in  the  life  of  any  bo}^  and  doubly 
so  in  the  life  of  a  foreign  boy.  I  had  conquered 
against  tremendous  odds,  and  for  this  I  was  chiefly 
indebted  to  my  teachers  who  had  given  me  a  chance. 
And  with  the  satisfaction  that  my  first  success 
brought  to  me  came  my  first  desire  to  remain  in 
America  and  become  a  part  of  her. 

While  these  thoughts  were  taking  definite  shape 
in  my  consciousness,  I  had  another  entirely  unex- 
pected manifestation  of  the  same  principle  of  fair 
play.  At  the  State  University  at  Orono,  Maine,  an 
interscholastic  oratorical  contest  is  held  yearly,  to 


172  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


which  each  of  the  twenty  or  more  preparatory 
schools  of  the  state  of  Maine  send  one  delegate. 
Three  prizes  and  two  honorable  mentions  are  offered. 
Our  school  had  sent  its  delegate  each  year  and  had 
once  captured  the  first  prize,  some  fifteen  years 
before. 

When  the  faculty  of  the  Maine  Wesleyan  Semi- 
nary came  to  choose  its  representative  for  the  com- 
ing contest,  to  my  utter  amazement,  the  choice  fell 
upon  me.  At  first  I  did  not  see  how  I  could  possibly 
do  it,  but  under  the  personal  encouragement  of  my 
teacher  in  elocution.  Miss  Alma  Gitchel,  I  finally 
took  heart  and  set  myself  to  what  seemed  a  Hercu- 
lean task. 

For  the  next  few  weeks  I  worked  untiringly  in 
preparation  for  this  supreme  test  of  my  school  life. 
Two  considerations  held  me  unswervingly  to  my 
work.  First  the  pride  of  the  school  was  at  stake, 
and  I  must  represent  her  worthily.  Second,  here 
was  an  opportunity  to  prove  to  the  public  at  large 
that  though  I  was  a  "foreigner"  I  could  play  my 
part  in  life,  were  I  given  a  chance.  I  had  heard 
so  much  said  against  the  "foreigner"  that  I  had 
actually  come  to  feel  a  sense  of  separation,  and 
to  assume  an  attitude  of  self-defense  and  a  tena- 
cious purpose  to  prove  the  worthiness  of  my  man- 
hood, independent  of  the  accident  of  birth. 

The  time  for  the  contest  finally  arrived  and  re- 
ceiving instructions  from  the  faculty,  I  started  for 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION 


173 


Orono.  On  the  evening  before  the  contest,  a  pre- 
liminary try-out  was  held  and  from  the  entire  num- 
ber of  contestants,  eight  were  chosen  for  the"  final 
contest.  I  had  at  no  time  been  very  confident;  so 
I  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  my  name  posted 
on  the  bulletin  board  the  next  morning  as  one  of 
the  final  participants.  The  evening  came  and  the 
contest  was  on.  The  chapel,  seating  some  five  hun- 
dred people,  was  crowded  to  the  doors,  and  the  in- 
terest was  intense.  I  was  fourth  to  speak.  I  gave 
the  entire  Court  Scene  from  the  "Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice." From  the  moment  I  began,  I  was  absoluteh- 
oblivious  to  the  presence  of  tlie  audience,  lost  irt 
my  supreme  effort.  It  was  a  great  moment  in  my 
life,  the  like  of  which  I  have  experienced  only  twice 
since  that  evening. 

The  contest  over,  the  judges  withdrew  and  later 
returned  with  their  decisions.  One  by  one  four  of 
the  contestants  were  called  to  the  platform.  As 
only  three  prizes  were  offered,  I  knew  that  I  had 
failed.  The  chairman  of  the  committee  was  the 
professor  of  Latin  at  the  University.  Solemnly  he 
announced  the  awards,  but  instead  of  first  announc- 
ing the  first  prize,  he  announced  the  two  special 
mentions  and  dismissed  the  recipients  from  the  plat- 
form. Then  he  announced  the  third  prize  and  fin- 
ally the  second.  When  this  was  over,  he  stepped 
to  the  front  of  the  rostrum.  A  tense  moment  fol- 
lowed. Amid  a  breathless  silence,  he  made  a  few 
comments  and  then  falteringly  spoke  my  name  and 


174  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


asked  that  I  be  escorted  to  the  platform.  The  au- 
dience burst  forth  in  tremendous  applause.  I  sank 
into  my  seat.  Something  inexplicable  gripped  my 
very  soul.  My  eyes  became  dim.  It  was  not  joy,  nor 
sorrow,  though  perhaps  a  sense  of  triumph  in  a 
righteous  cause.  Here  was  success,  and  for  it  I 
was  humbly  grateful.  At  last  I  felt  the  shackles  of 
suspicion  and  ill-will  fall  from  me.  I  saw  the 
triumph  of  Justice,  not  alone  for  myself,  but  for  all 
who,  like  myself,  had  suffered  untold  humiliation. 

I  remained  in  my  seat.  The  audience  shouted, 
"To  the  platform,  to  the  platform !"  Some  one 
escorted  me  up.  I  was  awarded  the  first  prize  and 
a  large  pennant. 

As  the  days  passed  and  I  realized  more  and  more 
the  significance  of  the  event,  I  became  thoroughly 
convinced  that  after  all  with  America's  best  peo- 
ple, foreign  birth  makes  little  or  no  difference.  Yet 
withal,  there  was  an  oppressive  feeling  of  loneli-" 
ness.  I  had  no  one  in  all  this  country  with  whorri 
to  share  these  little  successes.  Cannot  one  very 
much  better  bear  the  loneliness  of  failure  than  that 
of  success? 

Another  matter  connected  with  my  school  life  de- 
sei-ies  mention  because  it  illustrates  the  inspira- 
tional methods  of  my  American  teachers  in  contrast 
to  the  coercion  of  my  instructors  in  Italy,  and  the 
difference  in  results.  At  home  I  had  left  school  as 
a  direct  result  of  not  wanting  to  study  mathemat- 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION 


175 


ics.  The  bump  which  my  tutor  had  made  when  he 
broke  the  ruler  on  my  head,  transplanted  to  the 
inspirational  soil  of  America,  had  now  grown  so 
considerably  that  at  Commencement  I  was  able  to 
win  the  only  prize  offered  in  advanced  mathematics, 
for  which  several  students  had  a  neck-and-neck 
race. 

At  Commencement  also  I  had  an  opportunity  to 
compete  with  my  fellow  students  in  an  oratorical 
contest.  Every  one  thought  that  as  I  had  used  the 
Court  Scene  of  the  "Merchant  of  Venice"  at  the  In- 
terscholastic  contest,  I  would  also  use  it  here.  How- 
ever, I  realized  that  this  would  give  me  an  unfair 
advantage  over  my  fellow  students,  and  I  prac- 
tically relinquished  my  rights  in  the  contest.  With 
an  attitude  of  indifference  toward  it,  I  learned 
something  else  rather  hurriedly,  and  was  perfectly 
satisfied  to  lose  the  contest,  rather  than  to  seem  to 
have  capitalized  my  advantage  over  my  fellow-stu- 
dents. 

Before  leaving  this  description  of  my  school  life, 
I  must  make  bnef  mention  of  a  trip  I  made  to  New 
York  during  the  summer  of  my  second  year  at 
school.  I  had  heard  of  the  Museums  of  Arts  and 
of  Natural  History,  and  of  the  Cathedral  of  St. 
John  the  Divine  in  New  York,  the  latter  then  in  the 
course  of  construction.  In  the  five  years  I  had 
been  in  America,  I  had  scarcely  seen  an  edifice  which 
stood  particularly  for  Art  or  Beauty.    I  decided  to 


176  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


go  to  New  York  to  see  them.  I  took  the  boat  from 
Portland  and  as  I  did  not  have  much  money,  I 
did  not  even  purchase  a  berth.  On  reaching  New 
York,  I  spent  a  day  in  the  Museum  of  Art  and 
one  in  the  Museum  of  Natural  History.  I  also 
visited  the  Cathedral  on  110th  Street.  My  mone- 
tary store  being  very  meager,  I  lived  on  peanuts 
and  milk  during  my  entire  stay,  but  I  left  with  a 
feeling  of  great  satisfaction  and  with  a  lasting  im- 
pression of  what  I  had  seen. 

In  the  autumn  of  1907  I  entered  Wesley  an  Uni- 
versity, Middletown,  Connecticut,  one  of  three  in 
a  class  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  to  be  admitted 
without  conditions.  I  had  paid  all  my  expenses  and 
had  $50  to  start  college  on.  All  through  college 
I  had  the  sympathy  and  cooperation  of  the  faculty. 
I  paid  all  my  expenses,  partly  through  scholarships. 
I  took  part  in  minor  athletics,  represented  the 
College  on  the  Varsity  Debating  Team  for  three 
years,  and  participated  in  the  various  oratorical 
contests,  winning  some  prizes.  In  1911  I  received 
an  A.  B.,  and  in  1912  an  A.  M.  In  1911  I  entered 
Boston  University  School  of  Theology,  intending  to 
go  into  the  ministry. 

Two  of  my  college  instructors  stand  out  above  all 
others,  though  all  with  whom  I  came  in  contact  did 
a  great  deal  for  me.  One  of  these  was  Professor 
William  North  Rice.  Professor  Rice  is  one  of  those 
teachers  of  whom,  alas !  we  have  too  few  in  our 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION  177 


American  colleges  and  universities.  He  has  a  re- 
markable ability  to  awaken  independent  thinking 
in  the  minds  of  his  students.  While  his  classes  are 
not  always  large  or  popular  on  this  account,  there 
is  in  them  an  atmosphere  of  true  learning  and  vigor- 
ous thinking.  His  course  in  Science  and  Religion 
was  one  of  the  milestones  of  my  thought  life,  and 
one  of  the  few  courses  I  have  found  which  puts  more 
emphasis  upon  thinking  than  upon  mechanical 
knowledge. 

More  than  that,  Professor  Rice  was  a  genuine 
friend  to  me.  On  many  occasions  I  went  to  him  for 
personal  advice  and  he  was  never  too  busy  to  help 
me.  I  remember  one  occasion  in  which  he  gave  me 
invaluable  assistance.  I  had  received  news  from 
Italy  that  one  of  my  brothers,  serving  in  the  army 
at  the  time,  had  gotten  into  some  kind  of  difficulty 
and  needed  my  help.  It  was  necessary  that  I  send 
a  cablegram,  but  I  had  no  money,  and  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  I  went  to  Dr.  Rice  for  counsel,  and  he 
not  only  spent  three  whole  days  in  an  effort  to  get 
my  brother  in  Italy  out  of  the  tangle,  but  also  in- 
sisted upon  personally  loaning  me  the  necessary 
money  for  the  cablegram. 

To  my  much-esteemed  Professor  of  English  Lit- 
erature, the  late  Dr.  C.  T.  Winchester,  I  also  owe 
a  debt  of  lasting  gratitude.  He,  too,  had  the  gift  of 
leading  his  students  to  do  their  own  thinking. 
Aside  from  that,  he  was  to  me  the  supreme  Ameri- 


178  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


can  gentleman.  Professor  Winchester  was  chivalry 
and  courtesy  itself.  The  binisque  and  uncouth  man- 
ner I  had  early  learned  to  associate  with  Americans 
liad  no  place  in  him.  He  was  the  very  embodiment 
of  a  sturdy  moral  and  religious  character,  and 
blended  most  beautifully  with  it  was  the  most  thor- 
ouglily  refined  and  courteous  outward  manner.  In 
the  uniting  of  these  characteristics,  he  was  to  me  the 
American  par  excellence.  From  week  to  week  I 
spent  many  hours  in  his  study  conversing  on  sub- 
jects of  social  as  well  as  personal  significance. 
These  "conversazioni"  stand  out  as  the  most  in- 
spiring memories  of  my  college  days.  Above  all 
else,  I  feel  indebted  to  Professor  Winchester  for 
having  introduced  me  to  Browning,  who  has  become 
to  me  an  inexhaustible  spring  of  vigor,  power  and 
optimism.  Incidentally,  I  may  say  that  I  am  happy 
to  think  I  was  able  to  submit  this  book  to  Dr.  Win- 
chester before  his  death. 

All  that  my  life  in  school  and  college  meant  to 
me,  I  cannot  define.  Far  above  what  I  acquired 
of  knowledge  and  mental  training,  I  had  gained 
something  of  vaster  significance:  a  new  view  of  life. 
I  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  manual  labor  a  dis- 
grace. Here  in  America  I  had  earned  my  way 
through  school  and  college;  I  had  worked  as  jani- 
tor, tailor,  woodsman,  night  watchman,  mail  clerk, 
and  respectable  people  thought  no  less  of  me  for  so 
doing.    I  even  courteously  but  firmly  declined  to  ac- 


MY  AMERICAN  EDUCATION  179 


cept  the  aid  of  a  lady  who  had  become  interested  ii' 
helping  me  financially.  I  hope  I  did  not  seem  un- 
grateful; such  was  not  the  fact.  I  was  simply  en 
joying  my  independence  to  the  full.  The  American 
in  me  was  unconsciously  growing.  I  borrowed  no 
money  until  I  was  compelled  to  do  so,  and  then  I  re- 
turned it  as  soon  as  possible.  I  took  pride  in  my 
toil  and  in  being  independent.  "A  new  birth  of 
freedom,"  our  immortal  Lincoln  would  have  said, 
and  with  it  came  the  consciousness  that  this  was 
possible  only  in  America.  This  consciousness  was 
as  invigorating  as  a  newborn  morning.  It  was 
electrifying;  it  put  new  backbone  in  me;  it  broke 
the  shackles  of  petty  conventionality ;  life  became 
a  great  adventure. 

I  have  already  indicated  that  it  was  during  my 
school  and  college  days  that  I  learned  that  after  all 
in  America  the  accident  of  birth  did  not  play  a 
great  part  in  life.  In  fact,  I  felt  sometimes  that 
my  teachers  and  others  favored  me  because  I  was 
handicapped  in  language  and  otherwise.  All  in  all, 
my  school  and  college  life  led  me  to  really  believe 
that  this  was  the  land  of  true  opportunity,  and  the 
use  of  that  opportunity  has  made  a  most  valuable 
contribution  to  my  life  and  toward  the  growth  of 
what  I  call  my  American  consciousness. 


I  SCFFEB  SERIOUS  LOSSES 


One  lesson,  Nature,  let  me  learn  of  thee. 
One  lesson  which  in  every  wind  is  blown. 
One  lesson  of  two  duties  kept  at  one 
Though  the  loud  world  proclaim  their  enmity — 
Of  toil  unsever'd  from  tranquillity! 
Of  labor  that  in  lasting  fruit  outgrows 
Far  noisier  schemes,  accomplished  in  repose, 
Too  great  for  haste,  too  high  for  rivalry. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


CHAPTER  XI 


I  SUFFEE  SERIOUS  LOSSES 

WHENEVEE  I  have  recounted  these  experiences 
of  school  and  college  life,  I  have  always 
betrayed  my  enthusiasm  for  American  life 
and  institutions.  Some  of  my  American  friends, 
however,  have  objected  to  it.  They  say  that 
had  it  not  been  for  a  series  of  mere  accidents — 
as  they  call  them — which  led  me  to  school  and 
college,  I  might  still  be  buried  in  the  slums  of 
some  great  city  along  with  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands of  non-English  speaking  people,  and  still 
be  ignorant  of  the  real  heart  of  America.  These 
friends  point  out  that  while  a  fortunate  few,  like 
myself,  do  emerge  from  the  immigrant  masses  and 
write  appreciative  accounts  of  American  life,  there 
are  millions  who  remain  buried  in  cities  within  cities ; 
and  who,  through  no  fault  of  their  own,  never  even 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  true  America ;  milHons  who 
never  come  in  personal  contact  with  a  real  American ; 
who  never  see  the  inside  of  a  representative  American 
home.  America,  my  friends  say,  is  too  busy  to  take 
any  interest  in  them,  too  much  concerned  with  the 

[183  J 


184  THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


making  of  goods  to  care  for  the  making  of  good 
Americans.  She  contents  herself  by  delegating  to  a 
few  hundred  public  school  teachers  the  enoiraous 
task  of  transforming  fourteen  milUons  of  "for- 
eigners" into  Americans,  a  task  which  belongs  to 
the  whole  citizenry  and  which  cannot  even  be  touched 
by  ten  times  the  number  of  school  teachers  now  en- 
gaged in  it.  America  thinks  that  she  can  make 
Americans  by  coercion  or  by  asking  the  aliens  to 
attend  a  two-hundred-hour  course  on  Americaniza- 
tion each  year.  For  all  these  reasons,  my  friends 
point  out,  thousands  upon  thousands  remain  forever 
strangers  to  us  and  we  to  them,  and  therefore  my 
glowing  appreciation  of  what  America  is  doing  for 
the  immigrant  is  far  fetched.  Then  they  also  ask 
if  there  were  not  serious  losses  which  I  suffered  while 
acquiring  these  new  ideas  of  life. 

Are  my  friends  right.''  I  fear  they  are.  As  to 
the  losses  I  suffered  in  the  meantime: 

The  first  of  these  was  the  loss  of  that  trustful 
simplicity  which  I  brought  to  America  with  me. 
Then  the  persons  I  met  were  my  friends.  I  believed 
in  them,  I  believed  their  words,  I  trusted  them.  But 
beginning  with  the  treatment  I  had  received  at  the 
hands  of  George  Annis  and  John  Carter,  I  began 
to  look  upon  Americans  with  a  feeling  of  suspicion 
and  distrust.  My  jail  experience  and  the  general 
attitude  which  people  showed  toward  the  "foreigner" 
gave  me  a  consciousness  of  separation.    I  gradually 


I    SUFFER   SERIOUS  LOSSES 


185 


came  to  believe  that  I  was  surrounded  by  enemies, 
and  that  my  own  attitude  must  always  be  one  of  self- 
defense.  From  trust  and  confidence  I  passed  to 
suspicion  and  distrust;  from  believing  in  people  to 
questioning  their  motives  and  looking  upon  every 
man  I  met  with  a  big  question  mark  in  my  mind. 
AU  this  was  in  the  very  flower  of  my  youth,  and  it 
has  taken  years  of  conscious  struggle  to  overcome 
what  was  wrought  into  the  fiber  of  my  soul  during 
the  first  two  years  of  my  life  in  America.  Nor  is 
this  a  condition  peculiar  to  me,  for  the  more  I  have 
come  to  know  the  immigrants  in  this  country,  the 
more  have  I  found  this  attitude  much  more  preva- 
lent than  the  American  public  dreams.  It  may  be 
that  every  man,  whatever  his  nationality,  goes 
through  this  period  of  disillusionment,  but  I  cannot 
believe  it  is  so  acute,  or  that  it  comes  in  such  a  way 
or  at  such  a  youthful  period  as  in  my  case. 

A  second  distinct  injury  I  suffered  was  the  loss 
of  my  manners  and  the  deep  respect  I  had  been 
taught  for  law  and  order.  Those  who  would  have 
us  believe  that  environment  has  no  effect  upon  life 
in  its  practical  aspects  at  least,  need  to  make  a 
study  of  a  limited  group  of  immigrants,  making 
records  of  their  behavior  in  relation  to  manners  and 
to  respect  for  law  and  order  at  the  time  of  their 
arrival,  and  again  a  year  or  two  afterwards.  The 
change  is  very  striking. 

I  had  been  brought  up  on  the  "Galateo,"  a  famous 


186  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

book  on  good  manners ;  I  had  been  taught  from 
childhood  to  conduct  myself  properly  toward  every 
person  I  met  in  life;  to  be  chivalrous  to  women,  re- 
spectful toward  the  aged,  obedient  to  the  law. 

My  early  years  in  America  attacked  the  very 
citadel  of  this  respectful,  courteous  attitude  toward 
life,  and  almost  destroyed  it  before  I  was  conscious 
of  what  was  happening.  And  how  could  it  have  been 
otherwise.''  I  came  in  contact  only  with  the  rough 
and  the  uncouth,  with  persons  who  knew  no  refine- 
ment of  language,  of  bearing  or  of  manners ;  who 
mocked  order ;  who  defied  and  openly  broke  the  law ; 
who  ridiculed  the  old  and  infirm ;  who  gUbly  talked 
of  dumping  the  aged  as  you  kill  a  sick  dog  and  throw 
him  away.  Dignity  had  no  place  in  life;  liberty 
was  license;  vice  was  virtue.  All  tliis  attacked  the 
very  heart  of  my  early  training,  and  the  wonder  is 
that  as  a  youth,  susceptible  to  the  influences  of  en- 
vironment, I  escaped  with  as  much  of  the  real  sense 
of  the  beauty  and  the  dignity  of  Ufe  as  I  did. 

In  those  early  years  I  also  came  near  losing  my 
grip  upon  my  health.  I  had  inherited  a  vigorous 
constitution  and  when  I  came  to  America  I  was  in 
the  bloom  of  strength.  I  had  lived  the  greater  part 
of  my  life  out  of  doors,  especially  upon  the  sea, 
and  my  every  motion  was  one  full  of  power  and 
vigor.  Aside  from  the  minor  ailments  of  childhood 
I  had  never  been  ill,  nor  had  I  ever  had  occasion  to 
consult  a  physician.     Since  coming  to  America, 


I   SUFFER   SERIOUS   LOSSES  187 


liowever,  life  had  made  serious  inroads  upon  my 
iiealth.  For  years  I  was  obliged  to  drive  with  all 
ray  powers  in  order  to  earn  a  livelihood  and  to  com- 
pete with  the  world  about  me.  I  was  forced  to  work 
not  eight  hours,  but  as  much  as  fourteen  and  sixteen 
hours  a  day  in  order  to  keep  my  head  above  water. 
Then,  too,  there  was  the  tension  of  continuous 
loneliness,  of  grief,  of  struggle,  of  abuse, — all  of 
which  attacked  my  nervous  system,  while  the  in- 
tensive rush  of  American  life  drove  the  propellers 
of  the  heart  until  they  could  scarcely  stand  more. 
During  my  first  year  of  college  I  had  to  consult  a 
physician  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  was  suf- 
fering a  general  breakdown,  and  the  only  thing  which 
saved  me  was  a  slowing  down  of  my  driving  speed. 
But  even  then  it  was  too  late  in  a  measure,  and  the 
loss  in  physical  power  which  I  suffered  in  the  first 
five  years  in  America  will  be  felt  for  the  rest  of  my 
days. 

Perhaps  even  more  serious  than  all  else  was  the 
change  which  took  place  in  my  attitude  in  the  mat- 
ter of  thoroughness  and  exactness  in  work.  From 
earliest  childhood  one  of  the  greatest  satisfactions 
I  had  in  life  was  that  of  doing  things  well.  The  art 
of  painstaking  and  careful  work  seems  to  have  been 
inbred  in  my  very  bones.  Even  in  drawing  or  in 
making  my  little  ships,  it  was  instinctively  exact- 
ness and  beautiful  workmanship  that  appealed  to 
me.    While  at  sea  I  used  to  spend  hours  making 


188  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

all  kinds  of  articles  of  twine  or  rope,  and  at  paint- 
ing or  carving,  all  of  which  demanded  minute  care 
and  exactness.  Although  I  had  left  school  very 
early  and  had  not  taken  well  to  books,  whatever  I 
did,  I  did  with  precision  and  thoroughness.  Even 
during  my  first  year  or  so  in  preparatory  school 
my  aim  was  always  to  be  exact  in  my  work  even  to 
the  very  last  detail. 

But  I  was  caught,  caught  in  the  fast-revolving 
wheel  of  life  about  me.  I  saw  everybody  rush,  yes, 
I  felt  the  rush.  Students  placed  a  premium  upon 
speed;  upon  getting  through  school  as  quickly  as 
possible,  no  matter  how.  Those  who  could  manage 
to  complete  their  work  in  three  years  instead  of  four 
were  considered  the  most  capable  students  in  school. 
Long  before  I  came  to  realize  that  I  was  losing  one 
of  the  choicest  heritages  of  my  life,  one  of  the  best 
things  I  had  brought  from  Italy,  I  too  had  been 
caught  in  the  whirlwind.  It  was  not  until  I  was 
almost  through  college  that  I  became  conscious  of 
the  loss  I  had  suffered.  Painful  has  been  the  task 
of  retracing  my  steps  in  quest  of  what  sUpped  away 
from  me  in  the  first  three  or  four  years  of  life  in 
America. 

Like  myself,  every  immigrant  brings  something 
with  him  from  his  native  land  which  is  worthy  of 
perpetuation,  and  which,  if  properly  encouraged  and 
developed,  may  become  a  contribution  to  our  na- 


I   SUFFEE   SERIOUS  LOSSES 


189 


tional  life.  We  would  do  well  to  afford  to  every 
newcomer  an  opportunity  to  develop  and  to  con- 
tribute the  best  which  he  has  brought  with  him, 
rather  than  to  destroy  it  by  any  means,  direct  or 
indirect. 


i 


I  BECOME  NATURALIZED 


O  joy!  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  Nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest. 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 

But  for  those  first  aflFections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections. 

Which,  be  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  aU  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence;  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never; 
^Vhich  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy. 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 

William  Wordsworth. 


CHAPTER  XII 


I  BECOME  NATURALIZED 

IT  was  in  the  spring  of  1914,  almost  twelve  years 
from  the  time  of  my  landing  in  the  United 
States,  that  I  received  my  final  naturalization 
papers.    Why  had  I  not  become  naturalized  before? 

There  were  several  reasons  for  the  delay.  In  the 
first  place,  it  took  no  small  amount  of  moral  courage 
to  come  to  the  point  where  I  could  honestly  swear 
off  allegiance  from  my  native  country  and  as  hon- 
estly turn  it  to  this  nation.  Now  this  was  not  due 
to  the  fact  that  I  did  not  like  this  country,  or  be- 
cause I  did  not  value  its  institutions,  its  life,  its 
ideals.  Nor  was  it  because  I  was  so  deeply  attached 
to  the  political  life  of  my  native  country  that  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  leave  it.  On  the  contrary,  the 
cords  which  bound  me  to  it  were  quite  frail.  But  it 
was  chiefly  because  of  those  wonderful,  inexplicable 
tendrils  which  so  intertwine  themselves  around  our 
human  hearts  in  our  infancy  as  to  make  the  country 
of  our  birth,  the  very  village  or  hamlet  in  which  we 
first  saw  the  light  of  day,  the  one  spot  on  earth 
around  which  cluster  the  sweetest  of  life's  memories. 
[193] 


194  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

Go  where  you  will,  roam  far  or  near  over  earth*s 
diverging  paths,  still  now  and  again  those  delicate 
tendrils  pull  at  your  heartstrings,  and  as  long  as 
life  lasts,  your  mind  will  forever  turn  back  with  ten- 
derness to  the  scenes  of  childhood,  where  you  first 
became  conscious  of  life. 

Now  in  the  face  of  this  universal  fact,  how  unkind, 
how  cruel  are  the  methods  sometimes  used  in  connec- 
tion with  our  so-called  Americanization  program. 
Think  of  our  saying  to  these  foreign  peoples,  some 
of  whom  have  been  in  this  country  for  perhaps  a 
brief  period:  Forget  your  native  land,  forget  your 
mother  tongue,  do  away  in  a  day  with  your  inherited 
customs,  put  from  you  as  a  cloak  all  that  inheritance 
and  early  environment  made  you  and  become  in 
a  day  an  American  par  excellence. 

This  was  precisely  the  talk  I  used  to  hear  when 
I  first  came  to  this  country.  There  was  then  as 
now,  I  regret  to  say,  a  spirit  of  compulsion  in  the 
air.  "Either  become  an  American  citizen  or  get 
out,"  was  in  substance  the  attitude  of  certain  people. 
But  how  was  I  to  choose  so  suddenly?  "Give  me 
time  for  try,"  Thomas  Daly  makes  an  Italian  say. 
I  needed,  as  every  immigrant  does,  this  "time  for 
try,"  to  see  whether  I  could  honestly  become  an 
American.  To  speak  frankly,  what  had  there  been 
during  the  first  three  or  four  years  of  my  residence 
in  this  country  which  would  have  made  citizenship 


I    BECOME  NATURALIZED 


195 


at  all  attractive  to  me?  Even  had  I  wanted  to  be  a 
citizen  at  that  time,  I  could  not  have  forgotten 
Annis  and  Carter,  my  jail  experience,  and  all  the 
rest  that  I  had  gone  through.  Had  I  not  been 
sneered  at  as  an  undesirable  "foreigner?'*  Had 
I  not  been  maltreated,  discriminated  against, 
robbed,  insulted,  dragged  to  prison,  despised? 
I  grant  you  that  I  had  suffered  all  this  at  the 
hands  of  the  worst  and  very  lowest  elements  of 
American  society,  but  how  was  I  to  know  there  was 
any  other?  The  struggle  I  went  through  in  those 
early  years  in  America  in  regard  to  my  citizenship 
relation  to  her  can  only  be  understood  by  one  who 
himself  has  had  a  similar  experience. 

It  was  during  my  senior  year  in  preparatory 
school,  however,  that  on  the  advice  of  friends  I  made 
a  long  trip  to  Portland,  Maine,  and  took  out  my 
first  papers,  what  the  Italians  call  "the  half  citi- 
zenship." They  have  an  idea  that  by  taking  out 
these  papers  they  are  sure  of  a  certain  amount  of 
protection  from  the  United  States  Government,  while 
at  the  same  time  the  act  does  not  sever  their  legal 
tie  with  Italy,  and  puts  them  under  no  obUgation  to 
the  United  States.  Perhaps  something  of  this  atti- 
tude led  me  to  take  out  my  first  papers ;  at  least  I 
was  in  the  state  of  mind  of  "well-it-won't-do-any- 
harm."  By  the  time  I  was  ready  to  graduate  from 
preparatory  school,  I  had  really  begun  to  have  a 


196  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

desire  to  be  a  part  of  America,  and  gradually  I 
came  to  feel  that  I  would  become  a  full  citizen  at 
the  earliest  possible  moment. 

Unfortunately,  however,  I  left  Maine  and  estab- 
lished myself  in  Connecticut  while  attending  college. 
By  my  second  year  in  college,  the  time  had  expired, 
and  I  was  now  ready  to  take  out  my  full  citizenship 
papers.  But  I  soon  discovered  that  to  do  this  in 
Connecticut,  I  must  have  present  two  witnesses  who 
would  swear  that  they  had  known  me  for  five  years 
and  that  I  had  been  in  this  country  continuously 
for  that  period  of  time.  This  was  not  so  easy  a 
matter  as  might  at  first  appear.  Like  every  "for- 
eigner" in  this  country,  I  was,  comparatively  speak- 
ing, a  stranger.  The  only  people  I  knew  were  either 
in  Maine  or  somewhere  equally  far  off ;  to  bring  them 
to  Middletown,  assuming  that  two  such  persons 
could  and  would  leave  their  work  and  take  the  long 
journey  in  order  to  make  me  an  American  citizen, 
would  have  been  a  great  expense.  Later,  when  I 
was  informed  that  I  could  have  depositions  made, 
I  learned  that  these  would  cost  me  ten  dollars,  and 
ten  dollars  to  a  boy  struggling  to  make  his  way 
through  college  was  like  a  mountain  of  gold.  There 
was  no  choice  left  but  to  let  it  go.  I  regretted  this 
greatly,  for  by  my  senior  year  in  college  I  had  be- 
come deeply  interested  in  American  life  and  I  wanted 
to  take  part  in  civic-betterment  contests  in  our 
community. 


I    BECOME   NATURALIZED  197 

The  matter  was  still  further  complicated  by  my 
going  from  Connecticut  to  Massachusetts  for  grad- 
uate work.  I  still  needed  the  two  witnesses  who  had 
known  me  continuously  for  five  years.  How  could 
this  be.''  The  friends  I  had  known  in  Maine  had 
naturally  remained  in  that  state  and  had  no  way 
of  knowing  whether  in  the  interval  of  my  attending 
college  I  had  remained  in  this  country  continuously. 
On  the  other  hand,  persons  I  had  known  in  college 
had  known  me  at  most  for  four  years,  and  aside 
from  one  or  two  classmates  whom  I  knew  to  be  in 
the  vicinity  of  Boston,  I  had  no  way  of  reaching 
them.  It  seemed  as  if  I  would  finally  be  compelled  to 
import  two  witnesses  unless  I  was  willing  to  let  the 
matter  rest  indefinitely.  However,  if  I  did  this,  I 
might  upon  my  graduation  from  Theological  School 
go  out  of  the  state  of  Massachusetts,  and  the  intri- 
cate round  of  difficulties  would  begin  all  over  again. 

In  the  spring  of  1914!  I  made  a  desperate  effort 
to  get  through  the  barbedwire  entanglements  which 
were  keeping  me  from  American  citizenship.  I  found 
a  college  classmate  who  was  willing  to  put  in  the  time 
with  me.  He  had  by  this  time  known  me  for  about 
five  years.  There  was  another  friend  who  had  known 
me  for  five  years,  except  for  one  month,  during 
which  period  he  could  not  tell  whether  or  not  I  was 
in  this  country.  All  was  off  again;  the  inspector 
would  not  have  it  so,  and  in  order  to  fill  in  the  gap 
in  ray  wandering  residence  over  this  country  I  had  to 


198  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


import  a  third  man  who  would  swear  that  I  was  I 
and  that  during  a  given  month  I  had  been  in  this 
country.  On  that  day  four  of  us,  all  college  stu- 
dents, spent  almost  the  entire  day  in  the  ante- 
chambers of  a  certain  office  until  his  honor,  the  im- 
migrant inspector,  himself  of  Italian  birth,  would 
condescend  to  grant  us  a  hearing.  Worst  of  all, 
my  poor  pocketbook  had  to  see  a  number  of  precious 
greenbacks  emigrate,  for  it  was  necessary  to  feed 
my  witnessing  friends  both  for  luncheon  and  dinner. 
But  then  I  was  growing  accustomed  to  this  exodus, 
for  this  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  gone  to  his 
honor  the  inspector's  office.  It  was  a  part  of  the 
price  of  acquiring  my  citizenship. 

The  absurdity  of  the  whole  process  comes  over 
me  with  full  force  sometimes  and  I  have  a  hearty 
laugh  over  it.  Think  of  a  young  man  trying  his 
best  for  several  years  to  become  a  citizen  in  order 
that  he  may  perform  his  civic  duties,  and  then  being 
hindered  in  every  conceivable  way.  I  recall  the 
many  times  I  had  to  go  to  the  inspector's  office; 
on  most  occasions  we  went  on  appointment,  only  to 
find  ourselves  still  at  the  end  of  a  long  line  at  the 
end  of  an  imperfect  day.  Every  time  this  happened 
it  naturally  caused  me  embarrassment  in  that  I  was 
obliged  to  ask  my  friends  to  spend  another  day  with 
me,  not  knowing  whether  the  next  would  be  any  more 
fruitful  than  the  last.  The  rudeness,  the  incon- 
siderateness  of  the  officers  was  most  disgusting;  as 


I    BECOME  NATURALIZED 


199 


I  faced  man  sifter  man  I  wondered  how  they  had 
been  worthy  of  being  placed  in  such  important 
positions,  where  they  were  continually  leaving  bad 
impressions  in  the  minds  of  those  seeking  the  new 
citizenship.  There  is  no  place,  it  seems  to  me,  where 
courtesy  and  consideration  should  be  so  constantly 
manifested  as  toward  those  "knocking  at  the  gates" 
of  the  liighest  honor  we  can  confer  upon  them. 
As  I  recall,  there  was  anything  but  a  courteous  atti- 
tude shown  throughout  the  whole  process,  from  the 
Chief  Examiner  to  the  fat,  red-nosed  policeman  at 
the  door  of  the  Court,  who  held  us  in  a  long  line 
like  cattle  being  led  to  the  slaughter. 

The  moment  I  entered  the  courtroom,  however,  I 
felt  the  dignity  of  the  step  I  was  taking.  Judge 
Morton  of  the  District  Court  of  Boston  was  pre- 
siding. He  stood  up,  and  amid  the  breathless  silence 
of  the  court  room,  addressed  us  with  that  true 
simplicity,  that  deep  earnestness  and  natural  dignity 
which  characterize  a  public  officer  who  feels  the 
responsibility  of  his  office.  His  words  were  profound 
and  inspiring.  He  spoke  of  what  the  step  really 
signified,  of  the  soul  and  not  the  shell  of  citizenship. 
As  he  did  so,  he  gave  me  a  new  vision  of  what 
America  would  mean  to  me,  and  of  what  I  could 
mean  to  America.  As  I  stood  before  him,  my  only 
regret  was  that  the  larger  majority  of  my  "natural- 
ization class"  did  not  even  understand  the  words  he 
was  uttering. 


200  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

And  so  at  last  I  was  a  full-fledged  American  citi- 
zen. I  wonder  whether  my  Roman  forbears  could 
have  felt  any  more  dignified  than  I  did.  As  I  reflect 
upon  it,  I  am  exceedingly  grateful  that  I  did  not 
hasten  into  citizenship  in  answer  to  the  cry  of  make- 
Americans-quick  schemes ;  I  am  glad  that  I  first 
became  by  real  choice  an  American  in  spirit  before 
taking  the  legal  steps  of  becoming  naturalized.  I 
beUeve  that  I  am  a  better  American  for  it.  And 
yet  on  the  other  hand,  when  I  consider  the  endless 
difficulties  I  encountered  in  taking  these  legal  steps, 
I  wonder  that  more  do  not  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job. 
If  one  with  a  comparatively  good  knowledge  of  the 
law  and  its  methods  finds  it  so  difiicult  to  go  through 
the  process  of  getting  naturalized,  how  much  more 
impossible  must  it  be  for  those  who,  aside  from 
having  no  knowledge  of  the  law,  do  not  even  under- 
stand the  English  language.? 


STUMBLING  BLOCKS 
TO  ASSIMILATION 


This  is  the  land  where  hate  should  die — 

No  feuds  of  faith,  no  spleen  of  race, 
No  darkly  brooding  fear  should  try 

Beneath  our  flag  to  find  a  place. 
Lo!  every  people  here  has  sent 

Its  sons  to  answer  freedom's  call; 
Their  lifeblood  is  the  strong  cement 

That  builds  and  binds  the  nation's  wall. 

This  is  the  land  where  hate  should  die — 

Though  dear  to  me  my  faith  and  shrine, 
I  serve  my  country  well  when  I 

Respect  the  creeds  that  are  not  mine. 
He  little  loves  the  land  who'd  cast 

Upon  his  neighbour's  word  a  doubt, 
Or  cite  the  wrongs  of  ages  past 

From  present  rights  to  bar  him  out- 

This  is  the  land  where  hate  should  die — 

This  is  the  land  where  strife  should  cease. 
Where  foul,  suspicious  fear  should  fly 

Before  the  light  of  love  and  peace. 
Then  let  us  purge  from  poisoned  thought 

That  service  to  the  state  we  give. 
And  so  be  worthy  as  we  ought 

Of  this  great  land  in  which  we  live ! 

Denis  A.  McCarthy, 


CHAPTER  XIII 


STUMBLING  BLOCKS  TO  ASSIMILATION 

AS  early  as  1905,  three  years  after  my  arrival 
in  the  United  States,  while  I  was  still  in 
preparatory  school  and  before  I  had  become 
naturalized  or  had  even  definitely  decided  to  do  so, 
I  began  to  have  a  desire  to  do  what  I  could  to  inter- 
pret America  to  the  immigrant,  especially  to 
Italians,  and  an  equal  desire  to  interpret  the  life 
struggles  of  the  immigrant  to  the  American  public. 
Young  though  I  was,  I  realized  that  such  experiences 
as  I  had  personally  gone  through  were  more  or  less 
typical  of  thousands  if  not  of  millions  of  non- 
English  speaking  peoples  in  this  country,  and  there- 
fore I  felt  it  my  duty  on  general  humanitarian 
grounds  to  participate  in  the  work  of  mutual  in- 
terpretation. 

As  chance  would  have  it,  that  very  summer  I  read 
a  notice  in  a  little  religious  weekly,  in  which  an 
Italian  Mission  in  Portland,  Maine,  asked  for  help 
from  some  one  who  could  speak  Italian.  This  ap- 
pealed to  my  sense  of  social  obligation,  and  although 
it  was  something  of  a  financial  sacrifice  to  give  up 

[203] 


204  THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

a  more  remunerative  job,  I  answered  the  call  and  a 
week  or  so  later  I  was  in  Portland  starting  in  on  my 
new  work  of  helping  the  Italians  of  that  city. 

This  was  my  first  close-up  contact  with  immi- 
grants in  America,  From  the  very  first  I  was  much 
impressed  with  the  various  needs  of  the  people  and 
I  saw  many  ways  in  which  we  could  be  of  practical 
service  to  the  Italians  of  the  city.  I  therefore  made 
plans  to  mingle  with  the  people  themselves,  and, 
regardless  of  whether  they  came  to  the  rehgious 
services  we  held,  to  help  them  in  any  way  most 
needed.  I  soon  discovered,  however,  that  this  was 
not  what  the  authorities  wanted  or  expected.  Their 
primary  interest  was  to  fill  the  little  hall  with 
Italians  at  every  service  and  to  make  just  as  many 
"converts" — ^better  proselytes — as  possible.  Some 
of  the  workers  gave  themselves  with  great  zeal  to 
this  task,  and  they  could  not  understand  how  I,  with 
my  knowledge  of  Italian,  could  be  so  indifferent  to 
what  they  considered  the  most  important  phase  of 
the  work.  They  were  so  zealous  that  they  caused 
very  serious  breaks  in  the  home  Ufe  of  some  of  the 
people.  I  recall  one  case  where  a  young  man  was 
cast  out  of  his  home  by  his  parents  because  they 
did  not  approve  of  his  attending  the  meetings  held 
in  our  httle  chapel.  He  came  very  near  going  insane 
under  the  strain.  The  American  workers,  however, 
thought  they  had  accomplished  a  great  transforma- 
tion, although  the  young  man  ultimately  returned  to 


STUMBLING  BLOCKS 


205 


his  parents  and  gave  up  the  meetings.  Thus  early 
I  came  in  contact  with  a  class  of  Americans  who 
think  they  can  do  anything  they  please  with  the 
immigrants  and  their  children,  when  by  causing 
friction  and  ill  feehng  in  the  home  they  are  retard- 
ing rather  than  accelerating  the  work  of  assimila- 
tion and  Americanization. 

It  was  during  that  same  summer  that  I  saw  in  a 
very  tangible  way  the  results  of  the  attitude  which 
Americans  in  general  maintain  toward  the  "for- 
eigner,"— another  stumbling  block  to  real  assimila- 
tion. The  Italian  Government  was  about  to  open 
a  sub-consulate  in  the  city  of  Portland,  and  Signor 

V  was  assigned  to  the  post  of  Vice-Consul.  He 

was  a  man  of  fine  and  keen  intelligence,  tall  and 
pleasing  in  appearance,  and  a  gentleman  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  He  had  a  very  attractive  wife, 
and  I  believe,  two  children.     In  keeping  with  his 

position,  Signor  V          naturally  desired  to  live  in 

a  good  section  of  the  city.  Knowing  that  I  had  an 
entree  into  some  American  circles,  he  asked  me  to 
help  him  find  a  suitable  residence.  I  was  glad  of 
this  opportunity,  for  this  was  exactly  the  kind  of 
service  that  I  cared  to  render.  I  assured  him  that 
we  would  certainly  be  able  through  some  of  our 
friends  to  find  a  desirable  dwelling  for  him  and  his 
family.   We  started  on  our  hunt,  in  the  majority  of 

cases  Signor  V  accompanying  me.    We  went  to 

real  estate  agents,  to  friends,  and  to  houses  hav- 


206  THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

ing  the  "For  Rent"  sign  up,  but  everywhere  we 
were  turned  down.  It  was  exceedingly  embarrassing 
for  me,  for  I  had  assured  my  friend  that  in  a  brief 
time  we  would  be  able  to  find  something  for  him.  I 
could  not  understand  what  the  difficulty  was.  There 
were  some  houses  which  the  Vice-Consul  could  have 
had,  but  they  were  located  in  tindesirable  parts  of 
the  community  and  were  generally  unattractive. 
Finally  I  discovered  that  the  chairman  of  the  Com- 
mittee which  was  in  charge  of  the  Mission  I  was 
serving  had  a  house  for  rent.  Immediately  I  went 
to  him,  feeling  assured  that  if  anybody  in  the  whole 
city  would  make  it  possible  for  the  Vice-Consul  to 
have  a  decent  place  to  live  in,  he  would.  I  called  on 
him  only  to  find  that  even  the  chairman  of  the  Com- 
mittee was  not  ready  to  rent  a  house  to  the  Italian 
Vice-Consul.  "And  why.'"'  I  asked,  almost  in  anger. 
"Because  the  neighbors  would  object  to  having  an 
Italian  (pronouncing  the  "I"  long)  next  door  to 
them."  Then  for  the  first  time  I  understood  what 
the  difficulty  had  been.     I  was  greatly  chagrined 

and  Signor  V          was  greatly  humiliated,  and  was 

finally  obliged  to  locate  in  one  of  the  worst  sections 
of  the  city,  in  the  midst  of  the  Italian  colony. 

Now  were  this  an  isolated  incident,  it  might 
not  be  worth  narrating,  but  such  is  not  the  case. 
Any  self-respecting  immigrant  covdd  tell  a  similar 
story.  I  recall  a  prominent  ItaHan  physician  in 
another  city  who  had  very  much  the  same  experience. 


STUMBLING  BLOCKS 


207 


It  seems  easy  to  want  to  Americanize  the  "foreigner" 
at  a  distance,  or  to  delegate  the  task  to  some  one 
else,  but  when  they  get  too  near  us,  then  the  Une 
is  sharply  drawn,  not  on  the  basis  of  true  merit  or 
the  lack  of  it,  but  simply  because  one  is  a  "for- 
eigner." The  result  is  seen  in  "Little  Italies," 
"Little  Polands,"  "Little  Ghettos,"  and  the  like. 

All  in  aU,  my  first  experience  then  at  American- 
izing and  at  helping  the  immigrant  was  far  from 
encouraging.  I  returned  to  school  in  the  fall  in  a 
very  thoughtful,  if  not  pessimistic,  mood;  especially 
as  it  had  been  a  considerable  financial  loss  to  me. 
There  was  one  result,  however,  which  compensated 
all  the  effort  and  sacrifice.  I  was  able  to  take  back 
to  school  with  me  a  young  Italian,  who  started  at 
the  bottom  and  is  now  a  minister  in  a  Western  state. 

Upon  entering  college,  once  more  I  attempted 
work  along  the  same  general  lines.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  I  conducted  my  first  Americanization 
class.  This  class  was  under  the  supervision  of  a 
special  committee,  the  chaii'man  of  which  was  a 
manufacturer,  and  the  general  manager  of  liis  own 
factory.  There  were  in  the  city  some  five  thousand 
Italians,  from  whom  was  drawn  the  larger  part  of 
the  working  force  of  this  particular  factory  of  our 
chairman.  We  made  every  conceivable  effort  to  get 
a  goodly  number  of  Italians  to  attend  the  class,  but 
succeeded  in  securing  only  thirty  or  forty.  We 
taught  two  main  subjects:  English  and  Citizenship. 


208  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

In  the  latter  course  I  endeavored  to  expound  the 
principles  of  our  democracy  by  outlining  the  history 
of  our  country.  Now  the  pupils  showed  increasing 
interest  in  learning  EngHsh,  but  showed  a  feeling 
of  indifference,  if  not  of  hostility,  toward  our  course 
in  Citizenship.  Fearing  that  there  might  be  some- 
tliing  wrong  with  the  method  I  was  using,  or  in  the 
general  approach  I  was  making  to  the  subject,  one 
evening,  putting  all  books  aside,  I  asked  the  men 
to  tell  me  frankly  just  what  was  the  difficulty. 
Among  the  pupils  was  a  very  intelligent  young  man, 
a  graduate  of  a  technical  school  in  Italy.  He 
started  the  discussion,  pointing  out  that  this  in- 
struction about  democracy  was  all  well  and  good  as 
mere  talk,  but  that  it  did  not  have  any  relation  to 
real  life.  "Look  at  us,"  he  said,  "we  work  long 
hours  for  only  a  pittance,  and  see  the  treatment 
they  give  us  in  the  shop.    The  boss  kicks  us  and 

calls  us  'd  dagoes,'  and  all  that  in  the  shop  of 

the  man  who  gives  you  the  money  to  run  this 
class.  .  .  ." 

So  far  as  those  present  were  concerned,  he  had 
struck  the  right  chord,  for  they  aU  took  sides  with 
him,  and  a  few  had  other  interesting  facts  to  reveal 
and  accusations  to  make.  This  was  all  startling 
news  to  me.  The  statements  and  the  complaints 
impressed  me  so  deeply  that  I  decided  at  the  first 
opportunity  to  take  up  the  matter  as  tactfully  as 
possible  with  the  chairman  of  the  committee,  who 


STUMBLING  BLOCKS 


209 


was  the  employer  directly  involved  in  these  charges. 
I  wanted  to  discover  the  real  facts  in  the  case. 

One  day  I  had  occasion  to  go  to  the  office  of  the 
chairman  on  a  matter  of  business,  and  among  other 
subjects,  the  conversation  turned  to  the  American- 
ization class.  He  first  broached  the  subject  by 
making  a  complaining  remark  regarding  the  "lack 
of  interest  in  America  on  the  part  of  your  country- 
men." This  was  my  opportunity  to  discover  how 
far  the  men  had  any  reason  for  fault-finding.  I 
had  not  fully  believed  all  they  said  and  was  funda- 
mentally in  sympathy  with  my  own  and  their  em- 
ployer rather  than  with  them.     I  said  something 

like  this :    "Pardon  me,  Mr   ,  I  do  not  know 

what  more  we  can  do  to  attract  the  men  to  the  class. 
We  have  tried  every  possible  method  to  no  avail.  In 
fact,  from  what  the  men  tell  me,  our  Americanization 
work  has  no  interest  for  them  or  any  effect  upon 
them.  They  have  criticised  us  and  have  complained 
of  our  inconsistency;  they  have  said  that  the  ideals 
of  democracy  which  we  are  endeavoring  to  incul- 
cate do  not  agree  with  the  undemocratic  way  in 
which  they  claim  they  are  treated  at  their  work. 
Their  attitude  was  so  evident  that  one  night  recently 
we  put  away  all  books  and  I  asked  them  to  state 
their  grievance.  They  frankly  spoke  of  their  diffi- 
culties. They  know  that  you  are  personally  sup- 
porting my  work ;  they  say  that  they  are  being 
ill-treated  in  their  work  and  that  I  am  in  league 


210  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


with  you  in  hoodwinking  them,  .  .  .  They  say  that 
they  do  not  receive  enough  wages  to  keep  them  in 
decent  existence;  some  of  them  say  that  a  portion 
of  their  wages  is  being  taken  from  them  weekly  by 
the  'boss.'  Under  these  circumstances  I  find  it 
exceedingly  difficult  to  teach  them  our  American 
principles.  They  shrug  their  shoulders  and  remain 
completely  indifferent,  if  not  antagonistic,  to  all  that 
I  try  to  teach  them.  I  wish  you  would  give  me  your 
advice." 

I  had  been  perfectly  calm  in  saying  all  this,  and 
really  expected  that  we  would  talk  over  the  matter 

frankly.    To  my  utter  amazement  Mr.   became 

incensed.  The  only  advice  he  would  give  me  was : 
"Damn  the  dagoes,  let  them  go  back  to  their  rat 
holes"- — and  with  that  he  was  about  to  dismiss  the 
whole  subject.  For  the  first  time  in  my  hfe  my 
sympathies  were  turned  toward  the  man  under.  I 
said,  "Mr.    I  am  sorry  that  you  take  that  at- 

titude toward  the  matter.  Please  remember  that 
when  you  have  trouble  in  your  factory,  when  you 
hear  of  labor  difficulties  of  various  kinds ;  when  you 
hear  of  I.  W.  W.'s  and  anarchism,  of  bombs  and  the 
like,  that  it  is  the  spirit  back  of  your  'damn  the 
dagoes'  that  is  responsible  in  no  small  measure  for 
these  difficulties."  The  Americanization  class  ended 
right  there,  for  I  could  see  no  use  in  trying  to  do 
anything  along  that  line  with  such  an  atmosphere 
existing  around  our  work. 


STUMBLING  BLOCKS 


211 


Realizing  the  futility  of  this  kind  of  effort,  I  now 
turned  completely  away  from  it  and  became  the 
pastor  of  a  small  church  in  one  of  the  suburbs  of 
Hartford,  Connecticut.  It  was  through  a  mere 
coincidence  that  I  came  to  take  up  that  work.  It 
had  been  the  custom  for  that  church  to  have  a  pastor 
from  the  student  body  of  Wesley  an  University  for 
several  years.  At  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking, 
the  student-pastor,  a  friend  of  mine,  was  taken  sud- 
denly ill,  and  he  requested  me  to  supply  his  pulpit 
until  he  was  well  again.  I  went  to  the  church,  and, 
primarily  because  I  had  had  some  little  success  in 
platform  work  of  which  they  had  heard,  the  mem- 
bers were  much  pleased  with  my  services.  Time 
passed  and  my  friend  continued  to  be  ill.  In  the 
meantime,  we  were  enjoying  success  in  the  church, 
the  services  were  well  attended  and  a  general  feeling 
of  harmony  seemed  to  pervade.  The  time  for  con- 
ference came,  and  as  it  was  uncertain  how  soon  my 
friend  would  be  well  again,  some  one  proposed  that  I 
be  appointed  as  the  regular  supply. 

For  the  moment  it  seemed  as  if  an  avalanche  had 
been  precipitated  from  a  mountain  top  upon  the 
church.  The  membership  was  immediately  divided 
into  two  opposing  camps,  threatening  the  very  ex- 
istence of  the  organization.  That  I  had  rendered 
acceptable  pulpit  and  pastoral  service  all  acknowl- 
edged. Every  one  was  well  satisfied  and  pleased 
so  long  as  I  remained  their  temporary  pastor. 


212  THE    SOUL    OF    AS  IMMIGRANT 

but  it  was  inconceivable  to  a  large  part  of  the 
membership  and  especially  to  some  of  the  official 
members,  that  I  should  become  their  permanent 
pastor.  The  difficulty  was  simply  that  I  was  an 
Italian.  Those  favoring  my  staying,  however,  won 
the  point,  and  I  was  officially  appointed  and  re- 
mained there  two  years,  having  a  more  or  less  suc- 
cessful pastorate.  Before  I  left  there,  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  those  who  had  originally 
opposed  my  staying  say  that  they  were  in  the  wrong, 
and  that  after  all  the  fact  that  I  was  of  foreign 
birth  should  not  have  made  any  difference. 

I  continued  to  serve  American  churches  for  four 
years  longer,  one  at  North  Cohasset  and  the  other 
at  Amherst,  Massachusetts.  During  all  tliis  time, 
however,  I  still  felt  that  I  had  an  obligation  both  to 
America  and  to  my  native  countrymen  which  called 
me  to  work  in  their  behalf.  At  the  same  time,  I 
felt  a  pride  in  that  I  had  been  able  to  assume  some 
measure  of  leadersliip  among  Americans  and  I  was 
not  altogether  anxious  to  return  to  work  among  the 
Italians. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  an  opportunity  seemed 
to  open  up  whereby  I  could  still  continue  to  work 
among  American  people  and  at  the  same  time  have 
a  chance  to  express  my  inherent  interest  in  the  wel- 
fare of  the  Italian  people.  There  was  a  church  in 
a  suburb  of  Boston,  located  in  a  downtown  section, 
in  which  lived  some  twenty-five  thousand  Italians. 
The  church  in  question  had  once  been  one  of  the 


STUMBLING  BLOCKS 


213 


most  noted  and  prosperous ;  it  had  had  some  well 
known  men  in  its  pulpit  and  had  taken  great  pride 
in  its  fame.  But  with  the  passing  of  the  years  the 
Italians  had  so  invaded  the  community  and  the 
American  constituency  had  moved  away  so  rapidly 
that  the  church  now  faced  a  possible  extinction.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  was  not  a  single  religious  or 
social  organization  ministering  to  the  needs  of  the 
large  Itahan  community.  The  authorities  of  the 
conference  saw  in  the  situation  a  double  opportu- 
nity. If  they  could  appoint  a  man  to  this  church 
who  could  serve  the  small  American  constituency 
belonging  to  the  church,  and  at  the  same  time 
endeavor  to  do  sometliing  for  the  Italians  of  tlie 
neighborhood,  a  very  real  and  strategic  service 
could  be  rendered.  As  I  had  served  in  Italian 
communities  and  had  also  handled  some  American 
churches,  they  thought  I  could  do  the  very  thing 
they  were  seeking  to  accomplish.  Accordingly,  they 
made  their  plans  to  assign  me  to  the  work.  They 
had  not,  however,  taken  into  consideration  the  weak- 
ness of  human  nature.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that 
the  official  body  of  the  church  could  not  "suffer  to 
see  this  well-known  church,  or  even  a  part  of  it, 
turned  into  an  Italian  church,"  and  I  was  not  ap- 
pointed. The  church  continued  to  eke  out  an  ex- 
istence as  before,  while  the  numberless  Italians 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  it  remained  in  their  utter 
neglect. 


MY  AMEaiCAN 

"big  brother" 


The  multitude  of  mankind  had  bewildered  me  and  oppressed  me, 
And  I  complained  to  God,  Why  hast  thou  made  the  world  so 
wide? 

But  when  my  friend  came  the  wideness  of  the  world  had  no 
more  terror, 

Because  we  were  glad  together  among  men  to  whom  we  were 
strangers. 

It  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  reading  a  book  in  a  foreign  language, 
And  suddenly  I  came  upon  a  page  written  in  the  tongue  of  my 
childhood: 

This  was  the  gentle  heart  of  my  friend  who  quietly  understood 
me, 

The  open  and  loving  heart  whose  meaning  was  clear  without  a 
word. 

0  thou  great  Companion  who  carest  for  all  thy  pilgrims  and 
strangers, 

1  thank  thee  heartily  for  the  comfort  of  a  comrade  on  the 

distant  road. 

Henry  Van  Dyke. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


MY  AMERICAN  "bIG  BROTHEE" 

THERE  is  one  man  in  all  America  who  has,  more 
than  any  one  else,  helped  me  to  become  an 
American,  and  who,  by  several  years  of  un- 
failing and  constant  helpfulness  has  demonstrated, 
to  me  at  least,  what  every  American  could  do  if  he 
would,  to  help  the  "foreigner"  to  find  his  place  in 
the  American  system  of  things.  This  man  I  have 
chosen  to  call  my  American  "Big  Brother." 

The  average  American  does  not  realize,  perhaps 
cannot  realize,  how  difficult  it  is  for  a  young  man 
of  foreign  birth  to  find  his  right  place  of  self-expres- 
sion and  of  service  in  American  life.  His  back- 
ground may  be  the  very  best,  his  American  education 
the  most  complete,  his  desire  to  adjust  himself  to 
the  life  of  America  very  real,  but  when  the  actual 
fitting-in  process  comes,  he  is  face  to  face  with 
almost  insurmountable  difficulties.  If  he  is  without 
parents  in  this  country,  as  is  often  the  case,  he  has 
been  deprived  of  that  parental  guidance  which  is  so 
much  needed  by  every  youth.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  has  his  parents,  he  finds  himself  facing  almost 

1217] 


218  THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

as  great  difficulties  in  that  they  so  often  do  not 
sympathize  with  him  in  his  desire  to  get  into  real 
American  life.  In  either  case,  he  has  been  deprived 
of  that  parental  help  which  gives  the  native  born 
many  points  of  contact  and  makes  it  compara- 
tively easy  for  him  to  find  his  way  into  an  honorable 
and  profitable  profession  or  business.  On  the  one 
hand,  the  youth  of  foreign  birth  finds  himself  con- 
fronting the  inevitable  difficulty  of  prejudice  even 
on  the  part  of  good  Americans,  while  on  the  other  he 
is  liable  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  renegade  by  his  own 
countrymen  if  he  shows  a  desire  to  abandon  the 
segregated  hfe  of  immigrants  and  lose  himself  in 
the  life  of  his  new  coimtry. 

Now  it  is  quite  clear  from  what  has  gone  before 
that  this  was  the  case  with  me.  And  there  was  an 
additional  factor  which  made  it  hard  for  me.  Be- 
cause of  the  experiences  through  which  I  passed,  I 
was  coming  to  feel  that  it  mattered  not  how  well 
educated  I  was,  whether  or  not  I  was  an  American 
citizen,  nor  whether  I  did  have  an  honest  desire  to 
become  a  part  of  America,  I  was  still  a  "foreigner," 
do  what  I  might,  and  so  long  as  I  was  a  "foreigner" 
no  one  particularly  cared  what  became  of  me. 

It  was  at  tliis  point  that  my  American  "Big 
Brother"  came  to  play  a  part  in  the  unfolding  of 
the  American  in  me.  When  we  first  met,  he  showed 
no  particular  interest  in  me ;  in  fact,  up  to  that  time 
he  had  had  a  prejudice  against  Italians  in  general. 


MY  AMERICAN  ''bIG  BROTHER"  219 


But  as  the  years  passed  he  watched,  from  a  distance, 
my  yearning  to  fit  into  the  best  of  American  life. 
In  the  meantime  he  had  made  a  visit  to  Italy  and 
returned  with  an  entirely  different  attitude  toward 
immigrants,  and  especially  toward  the  Italians  in 
this  country.  Before  we  met  a  second  time  I  had 
chanced  to  write  a  brief  paper  expressing  my  con- 
victions that  only  by  offering  the  immigrant  the 
best  there  was  in  America  and  by  giving  him  an  op- 
portunity to  contribute  the  best,  can  we  as  a  nation 
ever  hope  to  make  the  immigrant  a  part  of  us. 

And  now  finding  that  I  could  not  take  up  the 
work  which  I  had  intended  because  there  was  a  dis- 
tinct prejudice  against  the  Italians  and  because  the 
officiary  entestained  the  horrible  fear  that  their 
church  might  be  turned  into  an  Italian  institution, 
I  was  now  face  to  face  with  the  problem  of  finding 
some  other  field  of  service.  It  happened  that  a 
certain  institution  in  the  North  End  of  Boston  was 
without  a  leader,  and  as  friends  had  many  times 
suggested  that  I  assume  its  leadership,  I  now  became 
favorably  inclined  to  undertake  it.  Two  forces, 
strangely  contradictory,  but  ignorant  of  each  other, 
now  became  serious  obstacles.  On  the  one  hand, 
there  were  those  of  American  birth  who,  as  mem^ 
bers  of  the  committee  of  direction,  claimed  that  onl)( 
an  American  born  could  possibly  assume  the  direc- 
torship of  such  an  institution.  But,  as  the  com- 
munity in  which  the  social  service  house  was  located 


220  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

was  very  largely  inhabited  by  Italians,  some  argued 
that  ray  Italian  background  was  a  distinct  advan- 
tage. I  was  sufficiently  American  in  training  and 
in  outlook  to  safeguard  American  ideals,  they 
claimed.  But  strange  to  say,  this  was  the  very 
reason,  others  claimed,  why  I  should  not  be  ap- 
pointed. The  constituency  themselves,  knowing 
something  of  my  ideas  about  America,  maintained 
that  I  was  too  much  of  an  American  and  for  that 
reason  should  not  be  appointed.  I  stood  aside  and 
laughed  in  my  sleeve,  realizing  that  neither  side 
saw  the  incongruity  of  the  situation:  too  little 
American  on  the  one  hand,  too  much  of  one  on  the 
other;  too  little  of  an  Italian  to  one  group  and  too 
much  of  an  Italian  to  the  other.  Pathetic,  to  say 
the  least !    Funny,  to  say  the  most ! 

It  was  at  this  stage  of  the  game  that  my  American 
"Big  Brother"  stepped  in.  He  happened  to  be  a 
member  of  the  committee  of  direction.  I  was  told 
later  by  a  third  person  that  the  real  American  in 
him,  the  American  of  the  "square  deal,"  of  "fair 
play"  arose  in  indignation.  He  stood  up  and  in- 
sisted that  birth  should  play  no  part  in  this,  but 
intrinsic  worth  only.  He  hammered  his  American- 
ism upon  the  heads  of  the  committee  until  they  had 
to  yield.  As  a  consequence,  they  appointed  me  to 
the  superintendency  of  the  institution  in  question. 

Now  it  was  not  the  appointment  itself  which  I 
cared  about,  but  rather  the  spirit  and  the  principle 


MY  AMERICAN  ''bIG  BROTHER"  221 


for  which  this  man  had  fought.  But  even  that  in- 
cident in  itself  did  not  make  this  man  so  impoi-tant 
a  factor  in  my  life.  It  was  what  followed  as  a 
consequence.  As  soon  as  I  took  up  my  work,  he 
expressed  himself  in  terms  somewhat  like  these : 
"Count  on  me  as  your  friend;  your  foreign  birth 
makes  no  difference  with  me;  call  on  me  whenever  I 
can  be  of  help  to  you."  As  the  months  passed  I 
found  that  I  could  really  count  on  him;  that  he 
was  my  friend  in  reality,  and  was  ready  to  spend 
his  time  in  counselling  one  who  was  much  in  need 
of  advice.  Counsel,  however,  is  as  far  as  many 
people  go  in  their  relations  to  the  immigrant.  There 
are  plenty  of  people  who  are  willing  to  give  ab- 
stract counsel,  but  are  not  ready  to  go  to  the  limit 
of  definite,  concrete  helpfulness  to  the  stranger 
in  a  strange  land.  My  American  "Big  Brother" 
went  further,  he  was  ready  to  put  in  time  and 
energy  in  drawing  closer  and  closer  to  me  every 
day,  and  as  he  did  so,  I  felt  the  fortifying  encourage- 
ment of  his  companionship.  Gradually  he  extended 
to  me  greater  and  greater  privileges ;  he  invited  me 
to  visit  him  at  his  home,  not  in  a  condescending 
spirit,  but  in  a  spirit  of  true  brotherliness.  We 
have  sat  about  his  fireplace  times  without  number 
and  discussed  the  problems  of  life.  With  him  and 
his  wife,  a  lady  of  true  refinement  and  inborn  cul- 
ture, I  have  taken  many  rides  over  the  wondrous 
country  in  the  vicinity  of  the  town  where  he  lives. 


222  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


We  have  gone  together  to  concerts  and  to  plays. 
We  have  worked  and  played  together  in  his  garden. 
He  has  introduced  me  to  his  friends,  well-bred  and 
cultured  Americans,  and  he  has  done  it  all  in  such 
a  spirit  of  true  neighborliness,  free  from  any  con- 
descension, as  to  make  his  friendship  a  source  of 
constant  inspiration  and  of  practical  help. 

Nor  was  this  interest  born  of  some  sporadic  fad. 
He  began  the  work  of  Americanizing  the  "foreigner" 
by  showing  him  true  kindliness  and  by  making 
America  seem  a  lovely  thing  and  much  to  be  desired, 
long  before  the  present  craze  of  the  so-called 
Americanization  movement  was  on.  And  as  the 
years  have  passed  I  have  come  to  feel  more  and 
more  the  power  of  his  steadying  influence.  When 
I  have  passed  through  critical  experiences  he  has 
stood  by  me  as  a  sympathetic  counsellor,  a  guide, 
a  friend.  When  others  have  shown  a  tendency  to 
say  "foreigner"  he  has  doubled  his  confidence.  He 
has  been  practical,  constructive,  suggestive,  sympa- 
thetic in  his  relations.  And  the  beauty  of  it  all  is 
this :  That  until  recently,  when  I  expressed  to  him 
what  he  had  been  to  me,  he  had  done  it  all  in  an  un- 
conscious way  and  had  not  realized  how  fully  he 
was  exemplifying  to  me  the  true  American.  He  is 
truly  a  man,  the  full  measure  of  a  man ;  lofty  in 
his  moral  and  spiritual  ideals ;  noble  in  bearing  and 
appearance;  truer  than  steel.    Above  all,  he  has 


MY  AMERICAN  ''bIG  BROTHER"  223 


shown  himself  to  be  an  American  who  so  loves  his 
country  and  who  has  such  a  belief  in  the  fundamental 
power  and  genius  of  this  nation,  and  who  is  so  con- 
cerned with  the  unfolding  of  its  true  destiny,  that 
he  is  willing  to  inconvenience  himself,  and  instead 
of  finding  fault  with  immigrants,  instead  of  pointing 
out  the  supposed  inferiority  of  this  or  the  other  race, 
he  has  devoted  himself  in  a  practical  way  to  the 
making  of  new  Americans.  I  am  certain  that  had 
it  not  been  for  my  American  "Big  Brother"  I  would 
not  have  the  deep-seated  faith  in  America  which  is 
mine  to-day. 

I  have  gone  somewhat  at  length  into  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  relation  that  this  man  played  at  a  critical 
moment  to  the  unfolding  of  the  American  in  me  and 
in  evoking  a  deeper  love  for  everything  that  is 
American,  because  of  my  ever-growing  conviction 
that  one  ounce  of  this  kind  of  treatment  will  do 
more  to  make  Americans  than  a  million  pounds  of 
the  Americanization  cure.  All  the  classes  in 
Americanization,  all  the  Fourth-of-July  orations,  all 
the  naturalization  campaigns,  would  not  have  begun 
to  do  for  me  what  this  one  citizen  did.  Americans 
are  not  made  by  simple  formulas.  They  are  born 
out  of  the  embodiment  of  ideals ;  they  are  molded 
into  shape  by  the  hand  of  those  who  have  mastered 
the  art  of  treating  men  as  human  beings,  whatever 
their  color  or  nationality.    When  we  fully  realize 


224  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

this  and  act  accordingly,  then  all  the  problems  of 
the  "alien"  in  America  will  largely  vanish  and  our 
country  will  realize  in  a  fuUer  measure  a  true  as- 
similation of  its  varied  people  and  a  truer  national 
consciousness  and  unity. 


IN  AN  IMMIGRANT  COMMUNITY 


Lo,  Lord,  the  crowded  cities  be 
Desolate  and  divided  places. 

Men  who  dwell  in  them  heavy  and  humbly  move 
About  dark  rooms  with  dread  in  all  their  bearing, 
Liss  than  the  flocks  of  spring  in  fire  and  daring, 
And  somewhere  breathes  and  watches  earth  for  faring, 
But  they  are  here  and  do  not  know  thereof. 

And  children  grow  up  where  the  shadows  falling 
From  wall  and  window  have  the  light  exiled. 
And  know  not  that  the  flowers  of  earth  are  calling 
Unto  a  day  of  distance,  wind  and  wild — 
And  every  child  must  be  a  saddened  child. 

There  blossom  virgins  to  the  unknown  turning 

And  for  their  childhood's  faded  rest  are  fain. 

And  never  find  for  what  their  soul  is  burning. 

And  trembling  close  their  timid  buds  again. 

And  bear  in  chambers  shadowed  and  unsleeping 

The  days  of  disappointed  motherhood 

And  the  long  night's  involuntary  weeping 

And  the  cold  years  devoid  of  glow  or  good. 

In  utter  darkness  stand  their  deathbeds  lowly 

For  which  through  the  creeping  years  the  gray  heart  pants — 

They  die  as  though  in  chains,  and  dying  slowly. 

Go  forth  from  life  in  guise  of  mendicants. 

Rainer  Maria  Rilke  (Trans,  by  Ludwig  Lewisohn). 


CHAPTER  XV 


IN  AN  IMMIGRANT  COMTklUNITY 

HROUGH  a  series  of  circumstances,  then,  as 


strange  as  those  which  twelve  years  before 


had  in  a  day  snatched  me  away  from  it,  I 
now  returned  to  the  very  community  in  which  I  had 
first  set  foot  on  landing  in  America.  But  in  those 
twelve  years  a  revolution  had  taken  place  in  my 
outlook  on  life.  I  had  seen  some  of  the  best  aspects 
of  American  life;  I  had  come  in  contact  with  some 
of  her  best  people ;  I  had  felt  something  of  the  high 
aspirations  of  a  soul  which  has  come  to  really  un- 
derstand American  ideals.  Naturally  I  would  now 
see  things  in  this  community  from  a  viewpoint  which 
would  have  been  impossible  had  I  remained  buried 
within  its  bounds  all  these  years. 

As  I  looked  about  me  I  said  to  myself :  "Well,  this 
is  a  real  immigrant  community,  of  which  I  have 
heard  so  much  in  the  American  world!"  From  the 
moment  I  first  set  foot  in  it,  I  began  to  be  conscious 
of  the  tremendous  difficulties  which  on  the  one  hand 
confront  America  in  her  desire  and  efforts  to  as- 
similate immigrant  groups ;  and  which,  on  the  other, 


[227  ] 


228  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


are  in  the  way  of  the  immigrants  themselves  in  their 
need,  and  often  their  desire,  to  become  an  integral 
part  of  the  body  American. 

For  one  thing,  here  was  a  congestion  the  like  of 
which  I  had  never  seen  before.  Within  the  narrow 
limits  of  one-half  square  mile  were  crowded  together 
thirty-five  thousand  people,  living  tier  upon  tier, 
huddled  together  until  the  very  heavens  seemed  to  be 
shut  out.  These  narrow  alley-like  streets  of  Old  Bos- 
ton were  one  mass  of  litter.  The  air  was  laden  with 
soot  and  dirt.  Ill  odors  arose  from  every  direction. 
Here  were  no  trees ;  no  parks  worthy  of  the  name ; 
no  playgrounds  other  than  the  dirty  streets  for  the 
children  to  play  on ;  no  birds  to  sing  their  songs ; 
no  flowers  to  waft  their  perfume;  and  only  small 
strips  of  sky  to  be  seen;  while  around  the  entire 
neighborhood  like  a  mighty  cordon,  a  thousand 
thousand  wheels  of  commercial  activity  whirled  in- 
cessantly day  and  night,  making  noises  which  would 
rack  the  sturdiest  of  nerves. 

And  who  was  responsible  for  this  condition  of 
things,  for  this  crowding  together.'*  Were  the  im- 
migrants alone  to  blame.''  Did  they  not  occupy 
the  very  best  tenements  available,  the  moment  they 
were  erected  and  thrown  open  to  them,  even  though 
at  exorbitant  rates 

Not  only  was  all  this  true,  but  every  sign  of 
America  seemed  to  have  been  systematically  rooted 
out  from  this  community  as  if  with  a  ruthless  pur- 


AN    IMMIGRANT    COMMUNITY  229 


pose.  Here  still  stood  old  Faneuil  Hall,  the  Cradle 
of  Liberty;  here  the  old  North  Church  still  lifted 
its  steeple  as  if  reminding  one  of  the  part  it  had 
played  in  the  Revolutionary  War;  here  was  Copp's 
Hill  and  many  other  spots  of  the  greatest  historical 
importance;  not  far  away  was  State  Street  (old 
King  Street),  where  the  first  blood  of  the  Revolution 
was  spiUed ;  and  here  too,  the  spot  where  the  Boston 
Tea  Party,  which  had  contributed  so  much  to  the 
making  of  America,  had  taken  place.  But  while 
these  monuments  stood  like  sentinels  reminding  one 
of  what  this  neighborhood  had  once  been,  now  every 
last  vestige  of  America  was  gone !  All  the  American 
churches,  homes,  clubs  and  other  institutions  which 
once  had  graced  these  streets  were  gone  forever; 
gone  to  some  more  favorable  spot  in  the  uptown 
section  of  the  city,  leaving  this  community  to  work 
out  its  own  destiny  as  best  it  could.  There  were 
churches  here,  to  be  sure,  Catholic  and  Protestant 
and  Jewish,  but  they  were  representative  of  other 
than  America ;  they  were  under  the  leadership  of 
men  who,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  stood  for 
other  than  American  sentiments  and  ideals.  In  the 
homes  and  on  the  streets  no  English  language  was 
spoken  save  by  the  children ;  on  the  newsstands  a 
paper  in  English  could  scarcely  be  found ;  here  were 
scores  if  not  hundreds  of  societies,  national, 
provincial,  local  and  sub-local,  in  which  English 
was  not  usually  spoken  and  in  which  other  than 


230THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

American  interests  were  largely  represented.  There 
were  schools  also  in  which  the  future  citizens  of 
America  were  taught  in  a  language  other  than 
English.  Here,  when  on  a  certain  patriotic  occa- 
sion, the  American  flag  was  raised  a  moment  sooner 
than  another  flag,  the  person  responsible  for  such 
a  "crime"  was  nearly  rushed  out  of  the  community. 
Above  the  stores  and  over  those  infernal  institutions 
which  are  permitted  to  bear  the  name  of  "banks," 
the  signs  were  mainly  in  a  foreign  language.  In 
a  word,  here  was  a  community  in  America  in  which 
there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  best  of  American  life. 
Had  it  not  been  for  three  well-organized  and  splen- 
didly equipped  social  servfce  houses  and  for  the  public 
schools,  all  of  which  consistently  upheld  American 
traditions  and  standards,  this  might  well  have  been 
taken  for  a  community  in  some  far-off  land. 

Nor  was  this  the  whole  story.  Not  only  were  all 
the  constructive  forces  of  American  society  absent 
from  this  community,  but  also  some  of  its  very  worst 
features  seemed  to  have  been  systematically  poured 
into  the  neighborhood  to  prey  upon  the  life  of 
the  people  in  their  all  too  apparent  helplessness. 
Here  within  this  half  mile  square  were  no  less  than 
111  saloons,  not  because  the  people  wanted  or 
patronized  them  to  any  great  extent,  but  because 
saloons  were  needed  for  revenue,  so  it  was  claimed. 
If  one  section  of  Boston  wovdd  not  have  them,  was 
it  not  necessary  that  they  should  be  established  in 


AN    IMMIGRANT    COMMUNITY  231 


another?  When  Dorchester  decided  to  turn  out  the 
saloons  from  its  precincts,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
additional  licenses  were  granted  to  the  "saloonists" 
in  North  End.  Who  would  care?  Here  in  this 
neighborhood  were  also  53  of  the  worst  imaginable 
institutions ;  poolrooms  and  bowling  alleys,  dance 
halls  and  gambling  dens,  brothels  and  the  like ;  again, 
not  patronized  in  the  main  by  those  living  in  the 
vicinity,  but  chiefly  by  out-of-  and  up-towners. 
Within  or  in  the  immediate  outskirts  of  the  com- 
munity were  also  located  eleven  moving  picture 
theaters  in  which,  according  to  an  actual  investiga- 
tion, 95  out  of  every  100  films  exhibited  depicted 
the  lowest  of  practices,  the  vilest  of  scenes,  the  worst 
of  crimes  ;  and  to  these  houses  were  admitted  children 
and  adults  alike,  the  law  notwithstanding.  In  this 
community  were  committed  some  of  the  most 
atrocious  of  crimes ;  once  more,  according  to  police 
records,  not  committed  mainly  by  the  inhabitants 
of  the  neighborhood,  but  by  those  who  from  every 
unheard-of  place  came  to  this  vicinity  for  their 
misdeeds. 

And  while  this  was  in  no  way  a  typical  American 
community,  neither  did  it  resemble  Italy.  No  one 
with  the  least  amount  of  Italian  pride  in  him  would 
want  to  boast  that  this  was  in  any  sense  an  Italian 
community.  In  fact,  more  than  one  investigator 
from  Italy  had  pronounced  it  the  very  contradiction 
of  all  that  Italian  society  stood  for;  the  pictures 


232  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

which  they  painted  would  have  made  blush  the 
worst  descriptions  given  by  American  sociologists. 
For  in  this  city  within  a  city  it  was  the  misfits  of 
Italian  society  who  were  "i  prominenti"  and  held 
dominance ;  it  was  those  who  could  "bluff  it  through," 
who  were  the  "bankers"  and  the  pubUcists ;  it  was 
the  unscrupulous  politician  who  controlled  things ; 
it  was  the  quack  who  made  his  money;  the  shyster 
law^'er  who  held  the  people  within  the  palm  of  liis 
hand.  True,  there  were  some  persons  who  could 
really  be  classed  as  Italian  gentlemen,  but  they  were 
few  and  could  easily  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of 
both  hands.  Again,  here  were  thrown  together  by 
the  hand  of  fate  the  humblest  elements  of  ItaHan  so- 
ciety, who  though  leading  a  peaceful  existence,  still 
were  representing  and  perpetuating  in  a  miniature 
way  the  interests  of  a  hundred  petty  Uttle  principali- 
ties and  powers  in  the  limits  of  a  single  community. 
Here  a  thousand  trifling,  provincial  and  local  ani- 
mosities and  controversies  were  brought  together 
and  fostered  in  a  way  that  out-Babeled  Babel.  This 
conglomeration  of  folks  would  have  been  as  much 
an  anomaly  in  Italy  as  it  was  in  America.  The  best 
of  all  that  Italy  stood  for  was  not  here.  You  might 
hunt  in  vain  for  the  least  sign  of  that  sense  of  the 
beautiful,  that  refinement,  that  leisureHness,  that 
culture,  that  courtesy  of  manner  so  typical  of  Italy 
and  the  Italian.    A  sad  and  sordid  picture  this ;  it 


AN    IMMIGRANT    COMMUNITY  233 

may  displease  some,  I  fear,  but  it  is  as  true  as  a 
correct  mental  camera  could  photograph  it. 

But  wliy  paint  it  at  all?  Because  as  a  native  of 
Italy  and  a  lover  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in  her,  I 
should  like  to  have  every  Italian  and  every  lover  of 
Italy  see  it  in  its  true  sordid  colors ;  look  at  it  until 
his  fixed  gaze  would  reveal  to  him  that  this  is 
not  representative  of  the  real  Italy ;  look  upon  it 
until  he  shall  come  to  hate  it  and  every  other  com- 
munity like  it  as  I  hate  it.  Because  as  an  adopted 
American  I  should  like  to  see  every  American  lover 
of  America  look  at  this  picture  and  every  similar 
picture  in  all  its  ugliness,  consider  the  causes  that 
gave  it  birth  and  keep  it  alive;  until  beneath  the 
intensive  and  penetrating  gaze  a  determination 
shall  be  born  in  every  heart  to  destroy  such  com- 
munities throughout  the  country  by  cutting  the 
roots  that  give  them  life. 

And  yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  came  to  love 
the  people  of  the  community  as  deeply  as  I  came 
to  abhor  its  communal  hfe;  I  came  to  love  them  for 
the  simplicity  of  their  characters  and  lives,  for  their 
hidden  capacities,  for  their  jocundity,  for  their  sin- 
cerity of  purpose,  for  the  beauty  of  their  home  life, 
for  the  indomitable  courage  with  which  they  faced 
the  most  untoward  circumstances  in  which  they 
were  placed. 

It  was  the  children  who  first  beckoned  to  my 


234  THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

affections.  I  came  to  love  them  as  I  saw  them, 
tlirough  no  fault  of  their  own,  separated  in  thought 
and  life  from  their  parents,  and  equally  separated 
from  all  that  was  America.  I  loved  them  as  I  looked 
upon  them  at  play  in  the  littered  streets.  I  loved 
them  as  I  saw  them  in  a  thousand  unconscious  ways 
express  their  yearning  for  the  beautiful,  the  true, 
the  lovely,  and  all  that  child  life  so  yearns  for. 

I  recall  how  my  heart  went  out  to  them  one  day, 
as  I  entered  the  community  with  a  cluster  of  roses 
in  my  hand,  which  I  was  intending  to  take  to  my 
institution.  As  I  passed  down  the  street  the  chil- 
dren gathered  around  me  as  they  once  gathered 
about  the  Pied  Piper  of  Haraelin  Town : 

"There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  jostling  and  pitching  and  hustling; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping  and  little  tongues  chattering; 
And  like  fowls  in  a  farmyard  when  barley  is  scattering 
Out  came  the  children  running. 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls. 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after," 

as  they  shouted  one  after  another :  "Please,  Mister, 
give  me  a  flower."  How  else  could  it  be,  with  their 
love  for  the  beautiful  as  expressed  in  flowers,  and  so 
seldom  permitted  to  see  it !  I  had  no  roses  left  when 
I  reached  my  destination. 

And  I  loved  them  for  the  songs  I  so  often  heard 
them  sing.  One  evening,  standing  upon  a  roof,  my 
attention  was  drawn  to  little  voices  singing,  their 


AN    IMMIGRANT    COMMUNITY  235 

clear  notes  rising  above  the  tumult  below.  I  lis- 
tened. From  one  direction  came  the  strains  of  the 
most  popular  song  of  the  time :  "It's  a  Long,  Long 
Way  to  Tipperary,  but  my  heart's  right  there." 
Over  to  my  right  I  could  hear  the  music  and  could 
almost  distinguish  the  words  of  "Santa  Lucia." 
While  from  a  tliird  direction  I  heard  a  baby  voice 
singing  in  strains  supremely  sweet: 

"O  Little  Town  of  Bethlehem, 
How  still  I  see  thee  lie; 
Above  thy  deep  and  dreamless  sleep 
The  silent  stars  go  by; 
Yet  in  thy  dark  street  shineth 
The  everlasting  light; 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  all  the  years 
Are  met  in  thee  to-night." 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  the  sweet  little  voices  and  the 
baby  hearts  were  conscious  of  yeanlings  unrealized. 

I  came  to  love  the  children,  the  boys  and  girls, 
as  I  saw  them  bend  beneath  heavy  loads  in  their 
efforts  to  help  their  parents  in  the  struggle  to  make 
a  living.  Often  I  saw  them  in  after-school  hours  as 
they  went  out  to  gather  wood  for  the  hearthstone 
fire.  One  afternoon  I  saw  what  seemed  to  be  a  pile 
of  boards  walking  on  two  little  human  legs  and  feet. 
I  touched  the  boards  and  gently  stopped  them. 
Looking  under  them  I  saw  a  baby  face,  a  boy  not 
over  seven  years  of  age.  And  one  evening  as  the 
sun's  last  rays  were  kissing  tlie  water  of  the  Charles 
River,  I  saw  a  boy  pulling  a  load  too  heavy  for  his 
small  shoulders,  up  the  steep  incline  toward  tlie  State 


236  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

House  on  Mount  Vernon  Street.  Brave  little  hearts 
these,  that  shared  the  burdens  with  those  who  could 
not  bear  them  alone,  in  their  efforts  to  eke  out  an 
existence. 

I  came  to  love  the  mothers  of  this  community, 
more  lonely  than  all  the  rest,  yet  putting  up  brave 
faces  against  the  most  tremendous  odds.  I  remem- 
ber one  especially,  a  widow.  I  had  heard  of  her 
need  and  called  upon  her  one  day.  I  knocked  at 
the  door.  Back  came  the  sound  of  baby  voices,  the 
pattering  of  baby  feet.  The  door  did  not  open. 
I  knocked  again,  then  tried  the  door;  it  was  locked. 
The  baby  voices  and  the  baby  feet  were  locked  in 
while  the  widowed  mother  was  out  in  search  of  bread 
for  her  brood.  I  returned  at  night.  In  the  desolate 
room  in  which  she  lived  a  small  kerosene  lamp  was 
burning.  It  was  dark  and  damp  and  dreary.  She 
told  me  her  story.  Left  alone  with  three  children, 
she  had  struggled  long  to  keep  them  alive,  earning 
nine  dollars  a  week  washing  dishes  in  a  restaurant, 
paying  fiA'e  of  it  for  her  one  room,  and  locking  her 
children  in  it  while  she  went  out  each  day  to  her  toil. 
One  of  her  children  had  succumbed,  the  baby.  It 
had  died  only  a  short  time  before  and  had  been 
buried  in  a  nameless  grave.  As  she  told  her  story 
back  to  my  mind  came  the  picture  of  her  struggling 
soul  as  painted  by  Daly.  Had  he  known  this 
woman's  sorrow  .f"  It  seemed  as  if  he  was  uttering 
her  very  words: 


AN    IMMIGRANT    COMMUNITY  237 


"Da  spreeng.  ees  com';  but  O  da  joy 
Eet  ees  too  late! 
He  was  so  cold,  my  leetla  boy, 
He  no  could  wait. 

"I  no  can  count  how  many  week. 
How  many  day,  dat  he  ees  seeck; 
How  many  night  I  sect  an'  hold 
Da  leetla  hand  dat  was  so  cold. 
He  was  so  patience,  O  so  sweet! 
Eet  hurts  my  throat  for  theenk  of  eet; 
An'  aU  he  evra  ask  ees  w'en 
Ees  gona  com'  da  spreeng  agen. 
Wan  day,  wan  brighta  sunny  day 
He  see,  across  da  aUeyway, 
Da  leetla  girl  dat's  livin'  dere 
Ees  raise  her  window  for  da  air 
An'  put  outside  a  leetla  pot 
Of — w'at  you  calla — forgat-me-not. 
So  smalla  flower,  so  leetla  theeng! 
But  steel  eet  mak'  hees  heart  a-seeng: 
'O  now,  at  las',  ees  com'  da  spreeng! 
Da  leetla  plant  ees  glad  for  know 
Da  sun  ees  com'  for  mak'  eet  grow; 
So  too,  I  am  grow  warm  an'  strong.' 
So,  lika  dat  he  seeng  hees  song. 
But,  ah !  da  night  com'  down  an'  den 
Da  weenter  ees  sneak  back  agen. 
An'  een  da  alley  aU  da  night 
Ees  fall  da  snow,  so  cold,  so  white. 
An'  cover  up  da  leetla  pot 
Of — w'at  you  calla — forgat-me-not. 
All  night  da  leetla  hand  I  hold 
Ees  grow  so  cold,  so  cold,  so  cold. 

"Da  spreeng  ees  com';  but  O  da  joy 
Eet  ees  too  late! 
He  was  so  cold,  my  leetla  boy. 
He  no  could  wait." 

And  I  remember  a  mother  who  late  one  night  knocked 
at  my  door,  as  if  in  a  frenzy,  and  sent  me  out  in 
search  of  her  boy,  the  boy  of  her  love,  the  boy  who 
had  gotten  beyond  the  power  of  her  control.  Sad 


238  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

indeed  was  the  picture  I  saw  long  past  the  midnight 
hour  when  I  came  back  to  her  home  without  her  boy. 

I  came  to  love  the  fathers  too,  many  of  whom 
were  putting  up  a  brave  battle  to  make  a  living  for 
their  famihes.  One  I  remember  well.  He  had  been 
in  this  country  for  fifteen  years.  He  had  done  all 
in  his  power  through  the  years  to  eke  out  an  ex- 
istence. He  had  five  cliildren,  all  born  in  America. 
One  day  he  was  telling  me  of  his  struggle  when  he 
broke  out :  "If  only  I  had  no  children  I  would  go 
back  to  Italy.  I  was  poor  there,  but  even  poverty 
is  better  in  one's  native  country.  But  I  cannot  take 
my  children  back  to  my  native  land.  They  were 
born  here,  they  are  Americans,  they  have  been 
brought  up  in  this  country.  Work  as  I  may,  I  find 
it  ever  more  difficult  as  I  grow  older  to  make  a 
living  for  them."  He  was  a  man  of  fine  sensibilities ; 
his  heart  was  breaking  beneath  the  load. 

For  all  their  beauty,  their  simplicity,  their 
patience  and  endurance,  for  all  their  native  intel- 
ligence and  sensibilities,  for  all  their  sense  of  pro- 
priety and  their  law-abiding  tendencies,  for  the 
wholesomeness  of  their  Hves,  for  the  immaculate 
characters  of  the  mothers,  for  the  unconscious  aspi- 
rations and  loveliness  of  the  children,  I  came  to 
love  these  people. 

It  was  into  this  community  and  into  this  condition 
of  things  that  my  American  superiors  sent  me.  As 
they  gave  me  instructions,  what  they  did  not  utter 


AN    IMMIGRANT    COMMUNITY  239 


seemed  to  say:  "Go  quickly,  encompass  the  earth, 
go  in  a  day  and  'Americanize'  and  'Christianize' 
them."  They  sent  me  into  a  building  which  was 
anything  but  representative  of  the  American  con- 
ception of  orderliness,  cleanliness  and  beauty;  and 
anything  but  suitable  for  a  work  of  upUft  and  in- 
spiration. The  building  was  very  old  and  had  been 
used  for  every  imaginable  purpose,  from  a  monas- 
tery to  a  storage  house,  and  was  sadly  in  need  of 
repairs.  It  was  a  monstrosity,  dark,  dirty,  damp, 
ill-lighted  and  poorly  ventilated.  Forgetting  that 
even  the  humblest  Italian  has  a  love  of  the  beautiful 
deeply  ingrained  in  his  consciousness,  my  superiors 
thought  this  building  altogether  adequate  for  the 
work  of  transforming  all  these  people  in  a  day  from 
"heathens"  to  "Christians"  and  from  "foreigners" 
to  full-fledged  "Americans."  When  we  came  to  ac- 
tualities, we  found  it  difficult  to  make  our  constitu- 
ency believe  that  tliis  was  a  church,  or  even  an  in- 
stitution. Moreover,  the  building  had  been  acquired 
in  an  indirect  way  from  certain  Catholic  interests, 
and  this  created  a  feeling  of  antagonism  from  the 
very  outset  toward  it  and  toward  the  institution 
housed  in  it.  Under  the  urge  of  the  impulse  to 
speedily  "Americanize"  and  "Christianize,"  the  work 
had  formerly  been  conducted  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
arouse  the  antagonism  not  only  of  the  people  of  the 
community,  but  also  of  those  persons  who  should 
have  been  its  strongest  allies,  the  leaders  of  the  social 


240  THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

service  institutions  to  which  I  have  already  referred. 
Antagonisms  had  been  aroused  and  conflicts  created 
which  were  conducive  to  anything  but  the  best  social 
welfare  of  the  neighborhood. 

Again,  my  American  superiors  kept  ever  before 
me  the  qwantitive  idea  of  things.  To  them  it  was 
not  a  question  of  how  solid  a  foundation  we  were 
laying,  or  how  far  we  were  benefiting  the  community 
and  its  people  in  those  unseen  ways,  through  in- 
spiration and  amelioration ;  their  one  idea  was  "How 
many.'"'  Nothing  seemed  to  please  like  a  crowd. 
How  it  was  made  up,  what  the  objective  might  be, 
what  the  outcome  in  terms  of  social  life,  were  sec- 
ondary considerations,  if  considerations  at  all.  I 
often  heard  it  said:  "We  must  make  a  good  show- 
ing." Showing,  not  doing.  This  tremendous  pres- 
sure was  felt  not  only  by  our  institution,  but  by 
others  as  well.  It  gave  rise  to  a  competitive,  dupli- 
cating and  wasteful  system  of  things.  For  one 
thing,  the  triangle  of  those  little,  almost  insignificant 
institutions  known  as  "Protestant  Missions,"  of 
which  ours  was  one,  was  on  the  one  hand  ever  com- 
peting for  the  negligible  Protestant  following  of  the 
community,  and,  on  the  other,  so  inter-related  as  to 
form  a  vicious  circle.  The  services  at  these  missions 
were  held  at  different  hours.  One  Sunday  I  at- 
tended them  all  and  found  the  same  constituency, 
meager  as  it  was,  swelling  the  ranks  of  aU  three. 


AN    IMMIGRANT    COMMUNITY  241 


Later,  by  mere  accident,  I  learned  that  seventy-five 
per  cent  of  the  membership  of  one  was  enrolled  on 
the  books  of  the  second,  and  thirty-five  per  cent  on 
the  books  of  the  third.  One  might  say  that  no  harm 
was  done  by  this  triple  alliance ;  yet  loyalty  was  not 
being  fostered  thereby,  and  what  perhaps  is  more 
significant,  the  American  superiors  of  each  of  the 
three  missions  were  content  with  their  apparent 
"much  serving,"  when  in  reality  it  was  the  same 
one-course  dinner  served  up  three  times.  Even  more 
interesting  than  this  was  the  discovery  that  on  the 
occasion  of  the  opening  of  the  third  mission,  which 
had  recently  taken  place,  the  pastors  of  the  other 
two  had  come  to  the  rescue  of  the  new  and  enter- 
prising pastor  by  a  "professional"  understanding 
with  him,  whereby  he  could  count  on  their  member- 
ship until  such  time  as  he  had  built  up  one  of  his 
own,  and  in  that  way  make  a  good  "showing." 
In  the  meantime,  the  people  went  on  pretty  much 
their  own  way,  practising  their  Old  World  customs 
and  habits  as  if  nothing  American  were  within  a 
thousand  miles  of  them. 

The  fact  was  that  this  community,  by  the  will  of 
the  American  people  and  that  of  the  immigrants, 
or  more  correctly  speaking,  in  the  absence  of  the 
constructive  will  of  any  one  group  of  people,  was 
leading  a  life  almost  completely  separated  from  the 
life  of  America.    What  this  separation  of  foreign- 


242  THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

born  people  of  any  nationality  signifies  is  fully 
illustrated  by  the  remarks  made  several  years  later 
by  a  leading  American.  Though  they  describe  an 
entirely  different  community  and  deal  with  a  differ- 
ent racial  group,  yet  the  fundamental  principles  are 
so  much  the  same  that  I  quote  it  here. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1919,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  far-famed  Steel  Strike.  I  had  been  assigned 
by  a  certain  institution  to  go  down  to  the  Pitts- 
burgh region  and  endeavor  to  discover  at  first  hand 
some  of  the  facts  underlying  the  whole  situation.  I 
went  from  village  to  village  where  trouble  was 
brewing  in  its  most  acute  form,  and  at  last  I 
reached  Monessen,  Penn.  On  approaching  the 
little  city,  upon  the  hill  across  the  river  and 
overlooking  the  town  below,  I  saw  two  men  with 
guns  strapped  to  their  shoulders  and  with  binoc- 
ulars before  their  eyes,  carefully  scrutinizing  the 
scene  in  the  distance.  As  I  passed  over  the 
bridge  leading  into  the  town  two  armed  guards, 
one  standing  at  each  side  of  the  bridge,  looked 
me  over  as  I  passed.  In  the  city  itself  men  were 
walking  two  by  two  silently  watching  every  passerby. 
Here  and  there  were  special  deputies,  some  of  them 
negroes,  their  badges  prominently  displayed.  I  was 
informed  that  the  night  before,  under  the  cloak  of 
darkness,  two  thousand  American  men,  under  the 
lead  of  a  major,  a  veteran  of  the  World  War,  had 
gathered  on  the  plateau  overlooking  the  city  to 


AN    IMMIGRANT    COMMUNITY  243 


receive  instructions  and  to  drill,  as  if  to  prepare  for 
a  new  war.  I  was  told  that  in  this  community  lived 
some  16,000  foreign-bom  people,  mainly  of  Slavic 
origin,  and  that  aU  this  preparation  was  being  made 
on  their  account.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  com- 
munity reminded  me  very  much  of  villages  close  up 
to  the  firing  lines,  which  I  had  seen  in  Italy  not  long 
before. 

I  had  a  letter  of  introduction  to  one  of  the  leading 
men  of  the  town.  This  man  was  one  of  the  oldest 
residents  of  the  city  and  had  seen  it  grow  from 
nothing  to  what  it  was  then.  He  was  a  business  man 
of  good  standing,  the  president  of  a  bank,  the  editor 
of  one  of  the  papers,  and  a  loyal  American  citizen, 
whose  sympathies  were  first  and  last  with  America 
and  with  law  and  order.  The  strain  of  the  situa- 
tion had  been  so  intense  that  he  had  been  ill 
in  bed  from  it.  Learning  of  my  errand,  however, 
he  courteously  came  down  and  gave  me  an  interview. 
In  answer  to  my  questions  as  to  the  causes  under- 
lying the  whole  situation,  this  was  what  he  said : 

"The  present  situation,  sir,  can  only  be  met  by 
armed  force.  I  regret  to  say  this,  but  it  is  abso- 
lutely true.  I  am  ashamed  to  think  that  such  a 
thing  should  ever  have  been  necessary  in  our  town. 
Ten  or  even  five  years  ago  we  could  have  done  any- 
thing we  wished  peacefully ;  a  simple  method  of  edu- 
cation would  have  prevented  all  this.    But  we  are 


244  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


primai'ily  to  blame;  we  have  forced  a  feeling  of 
separation  upon  these  people.  We  needed  them  for 
the  growth  of  our  industries,  we  wanted  them  to 
come  and  we  did  see  them  come  to  us  by  the  hundreds. 
But  we  refused  to  admit  them  to  our  civic  and  social 
life;  we  gave  them  no  access  to  our  societies,  our 
schools  and  our  churches.  We  called  them  "unde- 
sirable aliens,"  we  forced  them  to  segregate  into 
sections  of  their  own  and  to  organize  into  separate 
groups  in  which  only  their  own  language  is  used. 
First  they  organized  for  the  purpose  of  giving  ex- 
pression to  their  social  cravings,  and  then  those  very 
groups  served  as  centers  of  self-defense  when  we 
showed  antagonism  to  their  segregated  life. 

"When  first  they  came  to  us  they  were  as  innocent 
as  children ;  the  better  elements  of  our  community 
neglected  them.  Radical  leaders,  taking  advantage 
of  this,  had  their  day  and  did  anything  they  pleased 
with  these  people.  We  only  looked  on,  laughed  at 
their  doings,  and  called  them  'Hunkies.'  Now  they 
have  us  by  our  throats.  Only  last  Sunday,  'Mother 
Jones'  addressed  a  great  crowd  of  them  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town.  They  have  been  raised  to  a 
high  pitch  of  excitement.  They  have  been  taught 
that  by  means  of  this  strike  they  can  take  possession 
of  our  mills  and  our  town.  Our  lives  and  our  prop- 
erty are  unquestionably  in  great  danger,  but  the 
fault  is  ours.  If  we  suffer,  we  do  so  for  what  we 
ourselves  have  left  undone  in  the  years  gone  by." 


STII.L  MORE  OBSTACLES 
TO  ASSIMILATION 


The  Stranger  within  my  gates. 

He  may  be  true  and  kind. 
But  he  does  not  talk  my  talk — 

I  cannot  feel  his  mind. 
I  see  the  face  and  the  eyes  and  the  mouth. 

But  not  the  soul  behind. 

The  Stranger  within  my  gates. 

He  may  be  evil  or  good. 
But  I  cannot  tell  what  powers  control — 

What  reasons  sway  his  mood; 
Nor  when  the  gods  of  his  far-off  land 

Shall  repossess  his  blood. 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


STILL,  MORE  OBSTACLES  TO  ASSIMILATION 

THIS  is  only  a  part  of  the  problem.  Not  only 
are  immigrant  communities  left  pretty  much 
to  work  out  their  own  destinies;  not  only 
are  there  a  thousand  unsolved  problems  arising  from 
the  conditions  which  are  allowed  to  exist  in  them ;  but 
there  are  characteristics  inherent  in  the  very  nature 
of  the  immigrant  people  themselves  which  must  be 
considered  if  a  true  assimilation  is  to  be  effected. 

One  difficulty  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  immigrants  come  to  this  country  after 
reaching  the  age  of  mental  maturity,  and  it  is  a 
question  how  far  they  can  be  changed  in  their  out- 
look. I  recall  one  case  which  illustrates  this  quite 
forcibly.  This  was  a  man  about  thirty-five  years  of 
age  when  he  came  to  this  country,  and  forty-five  at 
the  time  of  which  I  write.  Born  in  a  little  hill  town 
of  Sicily  and  having  lived  his  whole  Ufe  in  that 
primitive  village,  he  had  naturally  adopted  the 
habits  and  customs  of  his  environment,  which  had 
created  his  whole  general  outlook  upon  life.  Sub- 
sequently I  had  occasion  to  visit  that  little  hamlet 

(247  I 


248  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


in  the  heart  of  mountainous  Sicily,  where  hardly  a 
sign  of  modern  civilization  exists  to-day.  As  he 
had  been  a  "contadino"  in  his  native  village,  his 
development  had  naturally  been  very  limited.  In 
this  country  he  had  first  worked  in  a  factory  and 
later  as  a  janitor. 

His  manner  of  dealing  with  his  family  was  decid- 
edly brutal  and  domineering.  His  wife  and  children 
were  almost  as  beasts  in  his  sight.  He  loved  them  as 
a  warm-hearted  Italian  can  love  his  children,  but  he 
never  allowed  them  to  use  their  own  initiative  or  to 
express  their  best  selves  in  any  way.  He  used  to 
beat  them  mercilessly.  Their  jobs  were  decided  upon 
by  him ;  their  earnings  were  his,  and  in  many  other 
ways  their  lives  were  wholly  circumscribed  by  him. 
It  was  not  that  his  cliildren  deserved  such  treatment ; 
on  the  contrary,  they  were  well-behaved  young  peo- 
ple, but  they  naturally  did  not  look  upon  things  as 
their  father  did. 

As  I  felt  a  special  responsibility  toward  his 
children,  for  reasons  which  I  need  not  state,  fre- 
quently I  would  talk  to  him,  explaining  to  him  what 
were  the  American  ideas  of  home  life  and  parental 
direction  and  control.  He  would  listen  atten- 
tively and  patiently.  Sometimes  it  seemed  that 
he  was  actually  getting  the  new  idea,  and  I  would 
think  for  a  little  while  that  he  would  really  change 
his  actions.  But  the  very  next  day  I  would  discover 
that  he  had  again  by  a  flogging  forced  his  dogged 


STILL    MORE    OBSTACLES  249 

will  upon  his  boy  or  his  girl,  and  had  done  exactly 
the  opposite  to  what  I  thought  he  had  understood 
and  promised  to  do.  The  fact  was  that  he  was  be- 
yond the  power  of  Americanization  in  these  as  in 
many  other  essentials.  He  spoke  English  quite  well, 
he  had  become  an  American  citizen,  and  was  very 
proud  of  his  citizenship ;  but  he  had  passed  the  age 
when  a  man  absorbs  new  ideas  or  foiTns  new  habits. 
How  far  such  a  man  can  be  truly  Americanized  is  a 
serious  question. 

This  same  inherent  difficvdty  of  inadaptability  to 
American  life  is  also  present  in  the  educated  men 
and  women  who  come  to  us  from  non-English-speak- 
ing countries.  Quite  often  illiterates  and  those  who 
possess  little  education  are  much  more  pliable  and 
susceptible  to  American  influences  than  educated 
persons.  Several  young  people  who  fall  into  the  lat- 
ter category  have  come  under  my  obsei'^'ation  at  one 
time  or  another.  One  was  an  extremely  bright  and 
attractive  young  man,  a  graduate  of  the  University 
of  Rome.  He  showed  every  possibility  of  making  a 
good  American.  After  much  argument  he  was  per- 
suaded to  enter  an  American  school.  He  mastered 
English  of  no  inferior  character.  But  he  was  con- 
that  he  even  wrote  and  published  some  poems  in 
English,  of  no  inferior  character.  But  he  was  con- 
tinually ill  at  ease,  maintained  a  drifting  attitude, 
had  no  definite  plan  of  life,  and  felt  that  his  training 
and  ability  were  not  sufficiently  appreciated  in  this 


2.50  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

country.  I  viewed  him  at  close  range  then,  and  as  I 
have  thought  of  him  in  after  years,  I  have  reahzed 
that  there  was  a  fundamental  difficulty  in  him  which 
is  typical  of  many  of  his  kind.  His  mental  outlook 
was  fixed  long  before  he  came  to  America ;  his  con- 
ception of  Ufe  had  already  reached  its  highest  de- 
velopment, and  it  was  beyond  his  power  so  to  re- 
adjust himself  as  to  really  appreciate  American 
conceptions  of  life.  The  last  I  heard  of  him  he  had 
left  school,  had  given  up  his  idea  of  an  American 
education  and  was  head-man  in  a  shoe-shining  parlor 
in  Portland,  Maine. 

This  difficulty  obtained  also  in  the  case  of  another, 
a  Sicilian.  He  was  a  man  about  thirty-five  years 
of  age.  He  had  been  in  this  country  four  years, 
was  a  graduate  of  a  technical  school  in  Sicily, 
and  was  a  thinking  and  versatile  man.  He  had  a 
well-balanced  mind  and  was  anxious  to  fit  into  the 
life  of  America.  He  had  taken  out  his  "half  citizen- 
ship" papers,  was  attending  night  school  faithfully 
and  showed  in  every  way  a  desire  to  become  an 
American.  He  would  often  come  to  visit  me,  and 
would  pour  out  his  soul  in  pitiful  pleadings,  asking 
for  help  in  finding  liis  place  in  life.  My  friends  and 
I  did  all  in  our  power  to  get  him  into  a  good  position, 
only  to  find  liim  helpless  in  his  effort  to  readjust 
his  mental  outlook  to  the  life  and  thought  of  this 
country. 

It  is  even  more  serious  to  find  this  lack  of  adapt- 


STILL   MORE  OBSTACLES 


251 


ability  among  those  who  have  come  to  this  country 
while  comparatively  young,  but  who  have  remained 
in  an  immigrant  community  during  the  period  of 
their  unfolding.  This  is  best  illustrated  by  the  ex- 
perience we  had  with  several  young  people  whom  we 
succeeded  in  sending  to  school.  My  own  experience, 
as  I  look  back  upon  it,  convinces  me  that  the  all- 
important  factor  which  set  me  upon  the  road  to 
Americanization  was  my  having  been  entirely  sepa- 
rated from  all  immigrant  community  life  during  the 
period  I  was  attending  school  and  college,  and  thus 
having  an  opportunity  to  get  a  real  taste  of  Ameri- 
can life.  So  I  reasoned  that  if  a  number  of  promising 
young  men  and  women  could  be  led  to  leave  the  immi- 
grant community  I  have  described  and  go  to  some 
preparatory  school,  we  would  have  a  concrete  ex- 
ample of  what  might  be  accomplished  in  the  way  of 
assimilating  the  younger  generation.  By  a  process  of 
selection,  we  set  out  to  discover  a  few  young  persons 
who  showed  promise  and  a  desire  for  an  education. 
During  the  first  year  of  the  experiment  we  selected 
four  and  encouraged  them  to  go  to  school.  To  make 
this  possible,  we  interested  a  few  friends  in  supplying 
part  of  the  necessary  funds.  Then  securing  the 
consent  of  the  parents  and  making  all  arrangements, 
we  sent  these  young  people  to  some  of  our  best 
preparatory  schools. 

By  the  time  of  the  Thanksgiving  recess,  it  became 
apparent  that  things  were  not  going  so  smoothly 


252  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

as  we  had  hoped.  For  one  thing  the  parents  had 
made  it  plain  that  they  did  not  like  the  plan.  They 
complained  that  it  reduced  the  family  income  to 
such  an  extent  as  to  cause  them  privation.  This 
was  not  true,  as  we  had  made  sure  to  select  such 
young  people  as  were  not  really  needed  by  their 
families.  The  parents  further  claimed  that  too 
good  a  knowledge  of  EngUsh  on  the  part  of  the 
children  was  not  desirable,  as  thereby  they  would 
lose  their  love  for  the  mother-tongue.  Again,  they 
maintained  that  the  absence  of  the  children  from  the 
home  for  even  so  brief  a  period,  would  cause  a  spirit- 
ual breach. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  was  evident  that  the  young 
people  themselves  were  ill  at  ease  in  their  new  en- 
vironment and  away  from  their  old  associations. 
They  did  not  like  the  food,  the  rooms,  and  they 
thought  it  humiliating  to  work  for  part  of  thei? 
expenses.  One  girl  became  almost  iU  crying  for 
her  home ;  one  boy  said  he  could  not  live  away  from 
his  parents ;  another  stated  his  parents  needed  his 
earnings,  and  so  on.  The  fact  was  that  the  parents 
had  continually  written  the  children  to  return,  and 
this  had  added  to  their  I-want-to-go-back  feelings. 

By  an  almost  superhuman  effort,  we  managed  to 
keep  them  in  school.  I  personally  visited  them  at 
the  schools  and  tried  in  every  possible  way  to  per- 
suade them  not  to  give  up  the  fight.  By  Christmas 
time,  however,  it  became  apparent  that  they  could 


STILL   MORE    OBSTACLES  253 

hold  out  no  longer.  The  old  life  was  calling,  calling 
them.  Two  of  them  di'opped  out  at  Christmas,  the 
remaining  two  held  out  until  the  Easter  recess  and 
then  back  they  went  to  their  old  life. 

Undaunted  by  this  experience,  we  tried  it  again 
the  following  year,  taking  an  entirely  new  group 
in  order  to  really  test  the  experiment.  We  sent  out 
six  young  men  this  time.  The  result  was  practically 
the  same.  We  attempted  a  half-way  method  by  en- 
couraging some  to  go  to  school  near  Boston  so 
they  could  return  often  to  visit  their  relatives.  The 
outcome  was  no  more  encouraging,  and  at  this  writ- 
ing, out  of  a  total  of  nine  young  people  whom  we 
thus  attempted  to  awaken  to  a  larger  life,  only  two 
are  still  persisting  in  an  effort  to  secure  an  educa- 
tion. The  most  discouraging  feature  of  the  entire 
effort  was  to  see  these  young  people  perfectly  satis- 
fied to  go  back  to  their  old  environment,  and  lead 
their  old  mode  of  life.  They  even  became  the  most 
staunch  opponents  of  American  ideas  and  ideals. 
The  Old  World  had  too  much  of  a  grip  upon  them 
and  it  was  futile  even  to  attempt  their  assimilation 
into  a  new  and  larger  world. 

Nor  does  the  problem  stop  here.  Even  with  the 
small  children,  there  are  almost  unconquerable  diffi- 
culties to  surmount  as  long  as  they  are  born  or 
brought  up  in  immigrant  communities  such  as  I 
have  described.  Can  we  really  ever  effect  their  as- 
similation so  long  as  they  live  in  these  strange  little 


254  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


worlds?  Here  again  my  experience  in  Boston  affords 
an  illustration. 

A  woman  in  our  constituency  had  three  children, 
two  boys,  one  seven  and  the  other  five  years  old,  and 
a  baby  girl.  She  was  a  widow  and  was  having  a 
bitter  struggle  to  eke  out  an  existence.  She  came 
to  me  one  day  requesting  that  I  interest  myself  in 
placing  the  little  girl  in  a  nursery,  and  the  boys  in 
a  kindergarten  or  school.  I  proceeded  to  make  such 
arrangements  at  the  pubUc  school,  when  one  day 
she  came  to  my  office  and  broke  out  crying.  I  could 
not  make  out  what  the  trouble  was.  After  she 
calmed  down,  I  asked  her  to  tell  me  the  difficvdty. 
After  evading  several  questions,  she  finally  said: 
"Please  don't  send  my  children  to  an  American 
school,  for  as  soon  as  they  learn  English  they  will 
not  be  my  children  any  more.  I  know  many  chil- 
dren who  as  soon  as  they  learn  English  become 
estranged  from  their  parents.  I  want  to  send  my 
babies  to  a  school  where  they  can  be  taught  in  the 
Italian  language."  Here,  then,  is  at  least  one 
reason  why  it  is  possible  for  many  schools,  other 
than  public  schools,  to  exist  in  America,  where 
languages  other  than  English  are  used  almost  ex- 
clusively. And  even  though  we  stifle  our  emotions 
as  we  see  a  mother  plead  for  the  privilege  of  keeping 
her  children  always  hers,  we  still  must  consider  how 
we  can  manage  to  bring  them  into  a  knowledge  and 


STILL   MORE   OBSTACLES  255 

appropriation  of  American  life  and  thought  in  the 
face  of  such  an  attitude. 

The  fish  vender  on  the  street  corner  near  historic 
North  Square  gave  me  another  illustration  when  he 
abruptly  stopped  me  one  day  and  said :  "Please  tell 
me  what  is  the  trouble  with  my  little  nephew?"  He 
was  a  boy  of  about  thirteen  years  of  age  and  just 
that  afternoon  had  caused  trouble  in  the  street.  I 
asked  him  what  the  difficulty  seemed  to  be,  and  he 
said,  "Why,  that  boy  was  a  model  of  obedience  two 
years  ago  when  he  came  to  this  country.  He  never 
thought  of  uttering  a  disrespectful  word  to  any  of 
us  and  especially  to  his  mother.  He  was  always 
home  early  at  night,  and  would  always  kiss  his 
mother  before  going  to  bed.  But  since  he  has  been 
here  he  is  getting  worse  and  worse.  We  can't  man- 
age him  now.  He  is  disrespectful  at  night,  he  gets 
home  when  he  pleases,  he  uses  language  more  vile 
and  profane  than  that  used  by  a  hardened  tough. 
We  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him.  Do  the  schools 
in  America  teach  boys  to  become  bad?  WiU  you 
help  me  to  send  him  to  jail?"  I  explained  that  it 
was  not  the  school's  fault  entirely,  nor  the  boy's, 
but  that  the  situation  arose  from  the  conditions  of 
life  existing  in  the  immigrant  community. 

Still  his  question  is  very  important:  "Do  Amer- 
ican schools  teach  boys  to  become  bad?"  Is  it  not 
true  that  as  the  immigrant  child  goes  to  school  and 


256  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

learns  English  he  becomes  estranged  from  his  par- 
ents, becomes  disrespectful  and  causes  trouble  in 
the  home  and  the  community?  And  is  it  not  also 
true  that  as  these  children  get  a  smattering  of 
American  ideas  and  ideals  they  become  so  inde- 
pendent as  to  be  uncontrollable?  And  is  it  not  this 
class,  and  not  the  immigrant  himself,  who  fiU  the 
juvenile  courts  and  swell  the  number  of  our  delin- 
quency cases  in  houses  of  correction? 

It  is  and  it  will  always  remain  a  problem  with 
which  American  society  has  to  deal  as  long  as  we  do 
not  have  a  better  method  and  a  better  system  of 
distribution  of  our  immigrant  population,  and  as 
long  as  we  permit  these  cities  within  cities  to  exist 
apart  from  the  main  body  of  our  American  society. 
Immigrant  colonies  as  they  now  stand  are  impene- 
trable citadels,  whose  invisible  walls  no  amount  of 
Americanization  can  batter  down.  Some  of  the 
factors  in  the  situation  are  inherent  in  human 
nature,  others  could  be  done  away  with  by  a 
proper  adjustment  in  our  educational  system  and 
by  means  of  a  proper  distribution  of  the  immigrant 
population. 


I  GO  TO  JATL 
ONCE  MOKE 


On  the  curb  of  a  city  pavement, 
'Mid  the  ash  and  garbage  cans; 
In  the  stench  and  rolling  thunder 
Of  motor  trucks  and  vans; 
There  sits  mj  little  lady. 
With  brave  but  troubled  eyes. 
And  in  her  arms  a  baby, 
That  cries,  and  cries,  and  cries. 

She  cannot  be  more  than  seven, 
But  years  go  fast  in  the  slums; 
And  hard  on  the  pains  of  winter 
The  pitiless  summer  comes; 
The  wail  of  sickly  children 
She  knows ;  she  understands 
The  pangs  of  puny  bodies. 
The  clutch  of  small,  hot  hands. 

In  the  deadly  blaze  of  August 
That  drives  men  faint  and  mad, 
She  quiets  the  peevish  urchin 
By  telling  a  dream  she  had — 
A  Heaven  with  marble  counters 
And  ice,  and  a  singing  fan. 
And  a  God  in  white,  so  friendly 
Just  like  the  drugstore  man. 

Her  ragged  dress  is  dearer 
Than  the  perfect  robe  of  a  queen! 
Poor  little  lass,  who  knows  not 
The  blessing  of  being  clean. 
And  when  you  are  giving  millions 
To  Belgian,  Pole  and  Serb, — 
Remember  my  pitiful  lady- 
Madonna  of  the  Curb! 

Christopher  Morley. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


I  GO  TO  JAIL  ONCE  MOKE 

1HAVE  gone  somewhat  afield  from  the  narration 
of  my  own  personal  story.  The  considerations 
which  have  occupied  the  last  few  pages,  how- 
ever, constitute  a  distinct  part  of  the  development 
of  the  American  consciousness  in  me,  and  for  that 
reason  I  have  dwelt  somewhat  at  length  on  them. 
We  now  turn  to  another  strictly  individual  expe- 
rience which  also  has  its  social  bearing. 

The  incident  occurred  in  the  summer  of  1916.  I 
was  still  in  North  End  as  superintendent  of  the  in- 
stitution referred  to.  The  house  was  located  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  most  thickly  settled  section  of  the 
community.  In  midsummer,  when  the  air  is  hot  and 
there  is  scarcely  a  breeze  stirring,  it  is  almost  un- 
endurable to  live  there.  The  nights  are  especially 
insufferable,  and  one  can  see  the  people,  almost 
naked,  lying  about  the  streets  or  on  the  fire  escapes 
and  the  roofs. 

In  order  to  bring  what  little  relief  we  could  to  the 
life  of  the  people,  and  especially  to  the  children  of 

[259] 


260  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


our  neighborhood,  we  conducted  a  summer  school 
consisting  of  classes  in  the  manual  and  domestic  arts, 
and  of  giving  the  little  folks  many  outings  and 
picnics.  We  also  had  sent  to  us  from  many  parts 
of  New  England  an  abundance  of  flowers  which  we 
distributed  daily  to  the  children.  So  fond  were 
they  of  flowers  that  we  always  had  difficulty  in 
keeping  order  when  the  time  came  for  their  distri- 
bution. 

This  work  filled  a  great  need  in  the  lives  of  these 
little  children.  In  order  to  get  closer  to  the  prob- 
lems of  daily  existence,  I  lived  in  the  community  with 
these  people.  But  it  was  somewhat  nerve-racking. 
Therefore,  it  was  my  custom  each  evening  to  leave 
the  neighborhood  completely  and  go  for  a  stroll 
through  the  Common  or  on  the  Esplanade  in  order 
to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air  and  a  little  re-invigora- 
tion.  One  Sunda}'  in  mid-August  was  what  Xew 
Englanders  call  a  "scotcher."  Not  a  breath  of 
air  was  stirring  and  the  temperature,  well  up  to- 
ward a  hundred  degrees,  was  charged  with  exces- 
sive humidity.  The  streets  of  our  little  immigrant 
city  were  fairly  covered  with  people  too  warm  even 
to  laugh  or  to  talk.  They  just  simply  lay  about 
trying  to  hold  on  to  the  thread  of  life.  The  moans 
of  the  little  children  would  have  awakened  pity  even 
in  a  stony  heart. 

In  the  late  afternoon  I  started  for  my  usual 
stroll.    I  reached  the  Common.    The  ground  was 


T  GO  TO  JAIL  ONCE  MORE 


261 


fairly  covered  with  people  trying  to  get  a  breath  of 
air.  Some  had  spread  newspapers  on  the  grass  and 
were  relaxed  full  length  upon  them.  Here  and 
there  was  a  mother  with  her  brood  of  little  children, 
the  little  ones  rolling  on  the  grass  and  the  mother 
trying  to  rest.  From  their  dress  and  appearance, 
it  was  clear  that  most  of  these  people  were  from 
our  community. 

I  was  walking  diagonally  across  the  historic 
grounds,  when  to  my  left  I  saw  people  rising  qm^kly 
and  running  in  a  semi-circle.  As  when  human  beings, 
suddenly  finding  themselves  driven  before  a  flood 
of  lava  or  water,  stand  bewildered  before  the  ap- 
proaching danger,  not  knowing  which  way  to  turn; 
so  this  mass  of  humanity  was  suddenly  arising  from 
the  ground  and  moving  rapidly,  scattering  in  every 
direction.  I  walked  toward  the  rising  tide  and 
soon  discovered  the  cause !  Three  policemen  with 
clubs  in  hands  were  driving  the  people  away.  I 
stood  still  for  a  moment  watching  the  pitiful  scene. 
Here  and  there  a  man  had  fallen  asleep  beneath  the 
oppressive  heat,  and  was  not  aware  of  the  approach- 
ing storm;  One  of  the  policemen  would  walk  up  on 
tiptoe  and  with  his  club  strike  the  sleeping  man  a 
blow  on  the  soles  of  his  feet,  causing  a  sudden 
awakening  and  a  scream  of  fear.  Here  and  there 
mothers  hastily  gathered  their  broods  and  ran 
before  the  approaching  stream  of  human  beings. 
As  I  stood  still  and  watched  the  scene,  hot  in- 


262  THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

dignation  arose  within  me.  I  would  have  remon- 
strated, but  remembering  how  futile  it  is  to  reason 
with  such  men,  I  turned  away  with  disgust  in  my 
heart,  and  wondering  whether  Boston's  citizens 
would  stand  for  such  treatment  of  its  people.  I 
asked  myself:    "Is  tliis  truly  Boston  Common.'"' 

Two  weeks  passed,  during  which  time  I  called  the 
attention  of  some  friends  to  what  had  happened.  The 
scene  remained  very  vivid  before  my  mind's  eye.  It 
was  now  the  8th  day  of  September.  Toward  evening, 
turning  away  from  my  usual  toil,  I  again  started  for 
my  evening  walk.  I  strolled  leisurely  uptown  where, 
at  seven  o'clock,  I  was  to  meet  a  friend  in  front  of  the 
State  House,  and  to  go  to  dinner.  As  I  passed  Park 
Street  Church,  near  the  northeast  corner  of  the 
Common,  I  looked  up  at  the  clock  tower  and  com- 
pared the  time  with  mine.  It  was  exactly  6 :40. 
Walking  to  a  seat  in  front  of  the  Shaw  Memorial, 
facing  the  State  House,  I  sat  down  for  a  moment 
of  rest  and  meditation,  awaiting  the  coming  of  my 
friend.  I  was  scarcely  seated  when  a  patrolman 
walked  up  and  brusquely  ordered  me  to  "move 
on."  I  have  learned  that  it  is  wise  in  the  vast 
majority  of  cases  to  obey  such  orders,  however 
much  I  may  not  see  the  reason  for  them.  In 
this  case,  however,  it  seemed  absolutely  unreason- 
able. I  had  just  that  moment  reached  the  seat;  I 
was  all  alone;  I  was  not  obstructing  traffic  nor 
causing  a  disturbance  of  any  character.    In  order 


I  GO  TO  JAIL  ONCE  MORE  263 

to  avoid  any  possible  misunderstanding,  I  told  the 
officer  I  had  just  arrived  and  was  there  to  meet  a 
friend.  I  even  took  out  my  professional  card  and 
offered  it  to  him  as  a  means  of  identification,  in 
order  to  prove  that  I  was  a  peaceful  citizen.  His 
answer  was:  "I  am  not  here  to  argue;  I  ordered 
you  to  move  on  and  I'U  give  you  just  three  minutes." 
With  that  he  stepped  away  and,  leaning  against  a 
stone  wall  near  by,  waited  for  the  three  minutes  to 
pass. 

I  did  some  rapid  thinking  in  those  three  minutes. 
Something  distinctly  American  rose  up  within  me. 
Was  I  possibly  infringing  upon  any  one's  rights.? 
If  so,  why  did  not  the  officer  inform  me.'*  Was  I 
loitering  or  trespassing?  Was  I  where  I  had  no  right 
to  be.''  I  saw  no  sign  or  indication  that  such  was  the 
case.  Was  it  not  be^t  for  me,  anyway,  to  "move 
on"  as  I  had  done  in  so  many  similar  cases.''  Was 
it  not  better  that  I  should  obey,  however  unreason- 
able the  command,  and  for  the  sake  of  my  name  and 
reputation  "move  on?" 

Just  then  the  scene  which  I  had  witnessed  two 
weeks  before  on  these  very  grounds  loomed  before 
me  in  bold  relief.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could  see  again 
the  rising  tide  of  humanity,  and  the  policemen  hit- 
ting men  with  their  clubs,  and  the  mothers  and  chil- 
dren driven  before  them  like  beasts.  That  settled 
my  doubts.  I  could  see  no  reason  why  I  should  be 
compelled  to  move,  and  I  was  now  willing  to  suffer 


264  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


whatever  might  coinc  for  the  sake  of  the  principle 
involved.  Had  not  others  done  the  same  on  these 
very  grounds  long  before  my  time.'*  Perhaps 
througli  wliat  I  might  endure,  Boston's  citizens  might 
come  to  know  some  of  the  things  which  went  on  in 
their  liberty-loving  city,  and  which  from  tlieir  homes 
in  the  uptown  sections  or  in  the  suburbs  they  never 
see. 

The  three  minutes  expired ;  the  patrolman  walked 
up  to  me  quickly  and  taking  hold  of  my  shoulder 
began  to  handle  me  roughly.  "Gently,  Officer,"  I 
said,  "please  place  me  under  arrest  first  and  let  the 
law  judge,  before  you  deal  me  any  rough  treat- 
ment." "Oh,  is  that  it,  freshy.'*  All  right,  come 
along  with  me.  You  are  under  arrest,"  was  his 
answer.  Just  then  two  young  men  happened  to 
pass  by.  I  requested  the  officer  to  allow  me  to  take 
their  names  as  witnesses.  This  he  refused  to  do. 
I  managed,  however,  as  the  officer  dragged  me  along, 
to  hand  one  of  them  a  dime  and  give  him  the  names 
of  two  prominent  citizens  of  Boston,  friends  of 
mine,  with  the  request  that  he  call  them  up  and 
notify  them  that  I  was  under  arrest  and  needed 
their  help.  At  6 :50,  exactly  ten  minutes  from  the 
time  that  I  had  passed  the  Park  Street  Church, 
according  to  the  records  at  the  police  station  I  was 
under  arrest  and  the  patrol  wagon  had  been  sum- 
moned. 

I  was   taken   to  the  J03'   Street  Jail,   and  I 


I  GO  TO  JAIL  ONCE  MORE 


265 


had  my   first  ride  in  a  patrol  wagon.     On  the 
way  the  patrohnan  who  had  arrested  me  did  not 
miss   the  opportunity   to   inform  me,   "We'll  see 
now,  freshy."     Knowing  there  was  notliing  to  be 
gained  by  it,  I  made  no  answer.    On  reaching  the 
police  station,  I  was  led  to  the  chief  officer's  desk 
and  there,  while  an  officer  stood  on  each  side  of 
me,  I  was  asked  a  number  of  questions :  my  name, 
my  residence,  my  profession,  etc.     "What  is  this 
man   charged  with,   officer.-'"   asked  the  sergeant. 
"Loitei-ing  and  obstructing  the  traffic,  and  refus- 
ing to  obey  the  officer's  order  to  move  on."    I  made 
no  answer.    I  was  informed  that  I  could  go  out  on 
bail  if  I  could  furnish  a  $50  bond  and  would  appear 
in  court  on  the  following  day.    I  had  about  $25  on 
my  person,  and  I  offered  this  and  a  check  for  an 
equal  amount  which  I  would  make  out  to  whatever 
name  was  desired.    I  had  my  check-book  with  me. 
This  was  refused ;  it  was  necessary  that  I  produce 
the  amount  in  currency,  I  was  informed.  As  I  could 
not  do  this  I  requested  that  I  be  allowed  to  telephone 
some  friends  to  bring  the  necessary  cash.    I  was 
informed  that  I  could  not  be  permitted  to  do  so. 
Accordingly,  as  there  was  no  way  out  of  it,  the  two 
guards,  who  had  in  the  meantime  stood  by  as  if 
watching  one  of  the  worst  of  criminals,  marched  me 
to  a  cell  and  locked  me  up.    I  offered  no  objection, 
for  there  was  notliing  I  could  do. 

The  cell  in  which  I  was  placed  was  about  four 


266  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

feet  wide  by  eight  feet  long.  It  had  no  window  or 
other  means  of  ventilation.  On  one  side,  close  to 
the  wall,  was  a  wooden  settee,  running  the  whole 
length  of  the  cell.  There  was  no  covering  of  any 
kind  upon  it.  Near  the  bars  which  faced  the  cor- 
ridor a  comfort  receptacle  was  set  into  the  settee. 
From  all  appearances  and  from  the  awful  odor  that 
arose  from  it  it  was  evident  that  it  had  not  been 
cleaned  for  a  long  time.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  all  kinds  of  lewd  pictures.  In  the  next  cell  a 
woman  was  locked  up,  who  apparently  was  a  master 
of  the  English  language  of  a  certain  shade.  Under 
these  circumstances,  and  with  the  oppressive  heat, 
the  outlook  for  the  coming  night  was  not  at  all  rosy. 
I  kept  calm,  however,  hoping  that  some  friend  would 
somehow  come  to  my  rescue. 

About  three  quarters  of  an  hour  passed  when, 
entirely  unexpectedly,  a  man  whom  I  had  not  even 
thought  of  appeared  on  the  scene.  He  walked  up  to 
the  cell  bars  and  said  in  excitement :  "For  Heavens 
sake,  man,  what  are  you  doing  in  there.'"'  He  was  as 
white  as  a  sheet.  I  laughed.  He  was  the  pastor  of  a 
nearby  church,  whom  I  knew  well.  When  the  patrol- 
man who  had  made  the  arrest  had  heard  me  state  my 
name  and  profession,  he  appeared  to  have  realized 
that  he  had  overstepped  the  mark.  He  went  to 
the  church  of  my  friend,  called  him  out  from  his 
prayers — he  was  just  beginning  a  prayer  meeting — 


I  GO  TO  JAIL  ONCE  MORE  267 

and  hurriedly  told  the  story,  saying:  "For  God's 
sake  come  and  bail  him  out."  My  friend  was  thor- 
oughly angry.  He  turned  to  the  sergeant  and  asked 
why  he  could  not  have  kept  me  in  a  waiting  room 
until  some  one  could  come  to  bail  me  out.  Finally 
he  produced  the  money  and  I  was  about  to  be  re- 
leased from  the  cell,  when  two  other  close  friends 
appeared  on  the  scene.  The  young  man  had  done  the 
telephoning.  It  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  there 
would  be  some  other  arrests,  in  the  police  station 
itself,  if  more  calm  was  not  shown  on  the  part  of 
my  rescuers. 

In  about  an  hour  from  the  time  of  my  arrest  I 
was  at  liberty  once  more,  none  the  worse  for  the  ex- 
perience. In  fact,  it  was  a  most  valuable  one  to  me. 
I  had  not  only  seen  what  actually  happens  when 
a  man  is  arrested,  I  had  also  seen  the  inside  of  an 
ordinary  cell  and  had  learned  many  things  which 
were  enlightening. 

The  next  morning  I  appeared  in  court.  From 
the  very  first  I  had  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  as 
to  the  possible  outcome.  I  was  certain  that  I  had 
not  at  any  time  uttered  a  word  or  acted  in  a  manner 
which  a  respectable  citizen  would  be  ashamed  to  own. 
I  was  called  up  to  the  witness  stand  and  in  response 
to  the  request  of  the  judge  I  narrated  the  entire 
incident  pretty  much  as  narrated  here.  In  fact,  I 
have  taken  it  almost  verbatim  from  notes  which  I 


268  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


made  at  the  time.  I  was  acquitted ;  the  officer  re- 
ceived a  reprimand,  which  I  was  told  was  exceedingly 
severe. 

I  felt  it  my  duty  to  let  the  public  know  the  de- 
tails, not  only  of  the  personal  incident,  which  in 
itself  was  insignificant,  but  of  what  lay  back  of  the 
whole  story,  especially  the  scene  which  I  had  wit- 
nessed only  a  short  time  before  on  Boston  Common, 
and  which  really  had  been  responsible  for  my  being 
willing  to  undergo  arrest. 

The  Boston  press,  always  on  the  alert,  had  al- 
ready given  some  notice  to  the  occurrence.  Without 
my  knowledge,  some  papers  had,  on  the  very  night 
of  my  arrest,  printed  an  account  of  it  with  a  photo- 
graph, but  thanks  to  the  Boston  Post,  which  took 
a  decided  interest  in  the  matter,  we  were  able  to 
conduct  a  publicity  campaign  with  the  object  of 
calling  the  attention  of  Boston's  citizens  to  some  of 
the  conditions  and  abuses  which  were  being  per- 
mitted to  exist  in  the  city.  People  took  an  interest 
in  the  matter  and  I  received  several  letters  express- 
ing appreciation  for  the  stand  I  had  taken  and  more 
especially  for  the  motive  lying  back  of  it.  One 
letter  urged  me  to  go  a  step  further  and  bring  suit 
against  the  city  for  false  arrest,  but  I  would  not 
consider  this.  After  all,  it  was  not  a  matter  for 
which  the  city  or  its  authorities  were  responsible, 
so  much  as  the  attitude  and  conduct  of  an  officer 
of  the  law. 


I  GO  TO  JAIL  ONCE  MORE  269 

Perhaps  the  deepest  significance  of  the  whole  in- 
cident, in  so  far  as  its  personal  effect  upon  me  is 
concerned,  was  that  it  gave  me  an  even  deeper  con- 
viction and  more  profound  belief  in  the  power  of  the 
American  courts  to  settle  matters  justly.  Of  course 
I  was  not  then,  nor  am  I  now,  unaware  of  the  pos- 
sible weaknesses  of  the  courts  of  justice  in  this 
country,  but  I  was  willing,  and  am  now,  to  take  my 
chances  on  receiving  a  just  judgment  from  an 
American  court,  more  than  perhaps  from  any  other 
American  institution.  This  was  the  third  time  I  had 
been  before  an  American  court  and  the  third  time 
that  the  equanimity  and  the  integrity  of  American 
judges  was  impressed  upon  me.  I  believe  that 
America  can  well  afford  in  all  matters  of  law  to  let 
the  immigrant  have  access  to  the  courts  of  justice, 
rather  than  to  leave  them  to  the  mercy  of  any  other 
institution. 

I  sincerely  wish  that  I  could  say  as  much  for  the 
policemen  with  whom  I  have  come  in  personal  con- 
tact. Of  course  I  realize  that  we  are  dealing  with 
an  entirely  different  class  of  men,  and  yet  I  am 
certain  that  much  could  be  done  with  the  personnel 
of  the  police  force  of  our  country,  especially  to  im- 
prove their  methods  in  dealing  with  the  immigrant 
groups,  by  a  simple  method  of  police  schools  such 
as  France  is  establishing.  This  was  the  third  time 
in  my  experience  in  this  country  that  I  had  come 
in  personal  contact  with  policemen.    I  had  found 


270  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

two  of  them  rough,  inconsiderate  and  ahnost  in- 
human; the  others  had  been  generous,  helpful  and 
decidedly  human,  and  had  demonstrated  to  me,  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  land,  what  a  friend  to  the 
"foreigner"  a  policeman  may  be  if  he  but  will.  I 
regret  that  this  is  not  more  often  the  case,  for  the 
policeman  holds  a  most  strategic  place,  as  a  rep- 
resentative of  official  America,  in  the  life  of  an 
immigrant  community. 

My  own  personal  experiences  as  a  prisoner,  as  an 
observer  in  police  courts,  as  a  defender  in  some 
cases,  have  led  me  to  believe  that  our  police  system 
often  seriously  retards  the  assimilation  of  the  im- 
migrant and  arouses  an  antagonism  in  him  which  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  penetrate. 

An  incident  which  came  to  my  personal  attention 
some  years  later,  connected  with  the  Steel  Strike  of 
1919,  will  illustrate  what  may  often  be  seen  in  the 
police  court,  and  will  give  to  the  American  reader 
an  idea  of  the  feelings  of  the  immigrant  when  he 
finds  himself  dealt  with  in  the  manner  described. 

In  a  certain  police  court  in  Pittsburgh  a  number 
of  Russians  and  Jugo-Slavs  were  daily  being  tried, 
in  early  morning  sessions,  for  alleged  disturbances 
in  connection  with  the  Strike.  It  had  come  to  my 
ear  that  certain  abuses  were  being  perpetrated.  In 
the  interest  of  American  fair  play  I  decided  to  be 
present  one  morning  and  see  how  far  these  charges 
were  or  were  not  true.    Several  cases  came  up  for 


I  GO  TO  JAIL  ONCE  MORE  271 

a  hearing  in  which  I  did  not  detect  any  injustice  in 
the  sentence.  Police  court  over,  I  saw  a  young  Rus- 
sian go  up  to  the  sergeant  and  pay  his  fine  of  $10. 
The  fine  paid,  the  young  man  requested  of  the  officer 
a  writ  of  transfer,  stating  that  he  desired  to  appeal 
to  a  Judicial  Court,  not  because  of  the  fine  he  had 
paid,  but  because  he  had  not  had  a  chance  to  defend 
himself  in  the  police  court.  Thereupon  I  saw  the 
burly  policeman,  a  giant  compared  to  his  victim,  take 
the  young  Russian  by  the  shoulder  and  give  him  such 
a  sling  as  to  land  the  latter  in  the  hall  some  ten 
yards  away,  and  almost  off  his  feet.  That  was  the 
only  satisfaction  he  got  for  requesting  the  right  to 
appeal,  a  fundamental  American  right ! 


MT  AMERICAN 
PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFK 


Where  the  mind  is  without  fear  and  the  head  is  held  high; 
WTiere  knoTvledge  is  free; 

Where  the  world  has  not  been  broken  into  fragments  by  nar- 
row domestic  walls; 

Where  words  come  out  from  the  depths  of  truth; 

Where  tireless  striving  stretches  its  arms  toward  perfection; 

Where  the  clear  stream  of  reason  has  not  lost  its  way  into 
the  dreary  desert  sand  of  dead  habit; 

Where  the  mind  is  led  forward  by  Thee  into  ever-widening 
thought  and  action, — 

Into  that  heaven  of  freedom,  my  Father,  let  my  country  awake. 

Rabindranath  Tagore. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


MY  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE 

DEAR  Brother  Vincent: 
In  asking  me  to  outline  what  changes  in 
my  thought  h'fe  I  directly  attribute  to  my 
residence  and  experience  in  America,  you  have  asked 
me  a  question  which  has  been  very  much  in  my  mind 
of  late,  especially  since  my  recent  contact  with 
Italian  life  and  thought.  I  fear  I  cannot  give  you 
what  I  know  you  would  want  without  going  some- 
what into  detail,  but  since  you  have  requested  it,  I 
will  furnish  it  to  you. 

I  wish  you  would  bear  in  mind,  however,  that  such 
changes  in  my  outlook  upon  life  as  I  am  about  to 
describe,  are  in  no  way  typical  of  what  occurs  in 
the  mental  awakening  of  the  average  immigrant  in 
America,  be  he  an  Italian  or  a  native  of  some  other 
country.  The  fact  is,  as  you  know,  that  mine  has 
been  an  extraordinary  opportunity  and  privilege  to 
come  in  contact  with  the  best  people  in  America ; 
whereas  the  vast  majority  of  what  are  here  called 
"foreigners"  remain  pretty  much  segregated,  living 
very  much  the  same  life,  in  thought  as  in  other  ways, 

12751 


276  THE  SOUL  or  an  immigrant 

as  they  lived  in  the  countries  from  which  they 
originally  came.  If  my  experience  has  any  signifi- 
cance at  all,  it  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  shows  what  a 
transformation  in  the  thought-life  of  the  foreign 
groups  could  actually  take  place,  if  in  some  way 
or  other  they  had  access,  as  I  have  had,  to  the  real 
life  of  America. 

Then,  too,  you  will  remember,  as  you  read  on,  that 
the  outlook  which  we  boys  had  in  Italy  does  not 
necessarily  represent  that  of  the  average  Italian 
in  Italy.  Many  young  men  had  greater  educational 
opportunities  than  we,  and  for  that  reason  their 
outlook  in  our  day  or  to-day  may  be  much  broader 
than  ours  was.  I  do  think,  however,  that  all  in  aU, 
my  outlook  upon  life  was  in  a  measure  representa- 
tive of  the  thought  life  of  Italy,  and  especially  of 
that  section  of  Italy  in  which  we  were  brought  up 
and  received  our  education.    Do  you  not  think  so.'' 

I  attribute  most  of  the  changes  of  which  I  am 
about  to  tell  you,  some  of  them  actual  revolutions 
in  fact,  to  my  having  come  in  contact  with  the  best 
thought-life  of  America,  especially  during  my  edu- 
cational career.  It  is  of  course  conceivable  that 
some  of  these  changes  might  have  taken  place  had 
I  grown  to  manhood  in  Italy,,  and  especially  had  I 
gone  to  the  University,  as  originally  planned  for  me. 
But  that  is  a  matter  of  conjecture  at  best.  More- 
over, it  is  quite  certain,  you  will  grant  me,  that  with 
father's  death  I  would  no  more  have  gone  to  the 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  277 


University  than  you  or  our  other  two  brothers  have. 
Then,  too,  I  think  I  have  a  pretty  good  criterion 
that  my  thought  life  would  not  have  changed  funda- 
mentally had  I  remained  in  Italy  all  these  years, 
in  what  I  gather  is  your  outlook  to-day,  and  that 
of  our  brothers.  You  have  all  come  in  contact  with 
the  larger  thought  life  of  our  native  country.  At 
any  rate,  what  I  shall  here  outline  for  you  is  what 
actually  has  taken  place,  regardless  of  any  possible 
changes  which  might  have  been  effected  in  my  life 
under  favorable  circumstances  in  our  loved  Italy. 
All  this,  you  understand,  is  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
parison and  without  any  derogatory  thought  in 
mind  toward  my  old  outlook. 

Now  as  to  the  changes  themselves :  The  first  of 
these  was  the  gaining  of  what  I  might  call  a  mobile 
and  free  attitude  toward  life.  In  each  case  I  will 
tell  you  just  how  the  change  occurred.  When  I 
first  came  to  this  country,  I  clearly  remember  how 
deeply  I  was  impressed  by  the  adventurous,  free  and 
easy  attitude  which  people  here  take  toward  life. 
Now  you  will  grant  me  that  life  in  our  little  city,  as 
throughout  all  Italy,  is  pretty  much  static.  It  is 
a  thing  seldom  heard  of  for  families,  or  parts  of 
families,  to  move  from  one  city  or  village  to  another. 
Generation  after  generation  live  in  the  same  place 
and  it  never  occurs  to  them  that  they  might  benefit 
by  going  to  another  part  of  Italy  to  live,  or  even 
to  a  nearby  town  or  city.    Our  own  family,  for  in- 


278  THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

stance,  has  lived  in  Molfetta  for  many  generations. 
Like  every  other  person  who  leaves  our  native  cit}', 
even  father,  when  he  went  to  the  university,  kept 
looking  back  to  his  native  city  with  the  idea  solidly 
inculcated  in  his  mind,  of  establishing  liimself  in 
Molfetta.  It  may  be  of  interest  to  state  that  in 
my  own  experience  the  one  tliought  which  was  upper- 
most in  my  mind  for  years  after  I  left  home,  was 
that,  however  far  I  might  go  or  however  long  I 
might  stay,  some  day,  some  fair  day  I  was  coining 
back  to  Molfetta.  You  may  recall  how  father  used 
to  repeat  to  us  Latin  and  Italian  sayings  to  the 
effect  that  the  old  was  always  preferable  to  the  new 
because  more  sure.  Do  you  remember  this  one.'' 
"Via  trita,  via  tuta"  (the  beaten  path  is  the  safe 
path),  and  also:  "Chi  lascia  il  vecchio  e  prende  il 
nuovo,  sa  che  lascia  ma  non  sa  che  trova"  (he  who 
leaves  the  old  and  takes  the  new,  knows  what  he 
leaves  but  does  not  know  what  he  hath  in  view). 
Now  that  was  exactly  the  conception  which  con- 
trolled my  thinking  when  I  reached  America.  It  is 
true  I  had  taken  some  decidedly  new  paths,  but  I 
had  done  it  in  partial  defiance,  unconscious  of  the 
old  conception,  but  not  in  obedience  to  the  new  con- 
ception which  displaced  the  other  after  I  had  lived 
in  America  several  years.  It  is  also  time  that  thou- 
sands of  our  people  leave  Italy  every  year  for  the 
utmost  parts  of  the  earth,  but  it  is  not  in  obedience 
to  a  definite  attitude  toward  life,  but  as  a  matter  of 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  279 


necessity,  and  they  are  always  reluctant  to  leave  the 
old  and  approach  the  new,  and  eagei'ly  look  forward 
to  the  time  when  they  can  go  hack. 

From  my  very  first  observations  in  America,  I  find 
exactly  the  contrary  to  be  the  case.  People  have 
no  scruples,  it  never  occurs  to  them  to  have  any 
scruples,  about  leaving  one  city  or  one  section  of  the 
country  and  establishing  themselves  in  another.  I 
am  speaking  now  of  representative  Americans,  for 
of  course  there  are  exceptions.  Even  here  they  have 
a  proverb  which  says :  "A  rolling  stone  gathers  no 
moss,"  but  the  better  thought  of  the  country  an- 
swers :  "Who  wants  to  be  mossy  ?"  The  mental 
outlook  is  one  of  adventure  and  free  movement.  I 
remember  how  deeply  it  impressed  me  to  find  a  family 
which  had  for  years  lived  in  southern  California 
living  in  the  State  of  Maine  on  the  Atlantic  Coast, 
some  three  thousand  miles  away.  I  was  also  dum- 
founded  to  learn  with  what  ease  a  young  man  born 
in  Canada  and  living  for  several  years  in  Maine,  de- 
cided almost  in  a  day,  to  go  to  live  in  Boston,  where 
he  has  become  a  lawyer.  It  is  not  an  extraordinary 
thing  to  find  whole  families  pick  up  bag  and  baggage, 
in  an  hour,  as  it  were,  and  go  to  live  in  another  part 
of  the  country,  as  if  it  were  nothing  at  all. 

When  I  first  became  conscious  of  this  freedom  of 
movement  on  the  part  of  American  people  I  used  to 
think  it  was  perhaps  due  to  the  recklessness  of  some 
individuals.    But  the  longer  I  live  liere,  the  more  I 


280  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

feel  that  it  is  one  of  the  outstanding  characteristics 
of  the  people  as  a  whole.  Life  for  them  is  a  great 
adventure.  They  do  not  hesitate  to  leave  the  old  for 
the  new,  especially  if  they  see  in  the  new  an  advan- 
tage of  any  kind  or  degree. 

It  took  me  five  years  to  recognize  in  this  freedom 
of  movement  a  possible  benefit,  and  to  put  it  to  a 
test  in  my  own  life.  It  was  precisely  with  that  end 
in  view  that  I  made  the  great  jump,  as  I  thought  in 
those  days,  from  Maine  to  Connecticut,  a  compara- 
tively short  distance,  as  distances  go  here.  I  had 
a  good  opportunity  to  go  to  the  University  of  the 
State  of  Maine,  but  I  chose  to  make  an  experiment 
by  going  to  college  in  far-off  Connecticut.  And  as 
the  years  have  passed  I  have  come  to  recognize  a 
mobility,  a  freedom  of  movement  in  life,  as  a  distinct 
advantage,  and  thus  the  first  great  change  has  taken 
place  in  my  conception  of  life.  I  have  adopted  it  as 
the  first  plank,  I  might  call  it,  in  my  American 
philosophy  of  life. 

My  next  change  was  in  the  matter  of  my  attitude 
toward  the  customary.  In  this  connection  do  you 
not  recall  how  carefully  we  were  taught  to  follow  cus- 
tom.'' Do  you  remember  how  our  adult  relatives  were 
kept  in  constant  worry  and  fear  that  they  or  we 
children  might  overstep,  in  ever  so  minor  a  way,  the 
bounds  of  custom.''  Our  lives  were  circumscribed 
by  the  consideration  as  to  whether  this  little  act 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  281 


or  that  was  customary.  Father  used  to  say  to  us, 
you  will  recollect :  "Usus  loquendi !"  (custom  speaks 
or  commands)  whenever  he  wanted  us  to  do  a  thing 
which  we  did  not  want  to  do,  or  vice  versa.  That 
was  the  most  effective  way  of  bringing  us  to  act  ac- 
cording to  usage  and  was  the  most  imperative  thing 
he  could  say.  I  believe  we  seldom  thought  in  terms 
of  right  or  wrong  of  the  deed,  but  rather  the  cus- 
tomary or  non-customary.   Am  I  not  right? 

This  was  the  second  great  lesson  which  I  learned 
in  America, — to  pay  attention  rather  to  the  right 
or  tJie  wrong  of  an  act,  than  to  whether  or  not  it 
is  customary.  Now  I  would  not  give  you  the  im- 
pression that  people  here  disregard  custom.  Not 
at  all.  I  find  that  here  the  individual  is  left  pretty 
much  to  his  own  judgment  and  that  his  first  con- 
sideration is  not  custom  so  much  as  whether  a  thing 
is  right  or  convenient  or  advantageous.  I  think 
that  the  first  thing  that  brought  to  my  attention 
this  characteristic  of  American  thought  in  a  strik- 
ing way  was  a  quotation  of  three  lines  from  the 
English  poet,  Tennyson,  which  I  used  to  hear  quoted 
by  public  speakers: 

"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways. 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world." 

With  that  as  a  starting  point  I  came  to  realize  more 
and  more  that  custom  is  not  altogether  an  unraiti- 


282  THE    SOTTI-    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


gated  good,  and  that  subservience  to  it,  perhaps  I 
should  say  to  it  alone,  is  oftentimes  a  source  of 
cori'uption  and  evil.  And  as  this  realization  took 
definite  shape  in  my  consciousness,  I  also  recognized 
it  as  a  distinct  characteristic  of  the  American  way 
of  looking  at  things. 

Not  unlike  this  was  the  change  which  took  place 
in  my  thought-life  regarding  the  opinions  of  others. 
I  do  not  recall  any  of  father's  teachings  on  this 
point,  except  that  he  used  to  say  something  about 
consulting  an  "old  sailor"  about  the  weather.  If  he 
ever  gave  us  any  instructions  in  regard  to  this,  it 
has  entirely  slipped  my  mind.  Anyway,  he  himself 
was  so  independent  and  so  free  from  the  snare  of 
other  people's  opinions  that  he  could  not  have  said 
very  much  about  this.  I  do  not  mean  to  use  the 
idea  of  "consulting"  as  synonomous  with  "regard 
for  the  opinions  of  others."  You  will  see  that  there 
is  a  very  clear  difference  between  the  two  concepts: 
one  refers  to  a  person's  seeking  the  advice  of  an- 
other, whether  or  not  he  follows  the  counsel  given; 
the  other  has  reference  to  that  obnoxious  practice 
so  prevalent  everywhere  of  "sticking  one's  nose  in 
another's  business,"  as  Americans  say,  and  trying, 
with  or  without  reason,  to  impose  their  opinions 
upon  others.  The  idea  of  freedom  from  the  opinions 
of  others  differs  from  that  of  freedom  from  custom, 
in  that  the  latter  is  a  general  force,  while  the  former 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  283 


is  the  definite  expression  of  one  person  regarding 
the  doings  of  another. 

Now  I  think  you  will  call  to  mind  how  people  we 
knew  in  our  boyhood  days  were  actually  slaves  to 
this  kind  of  practice;  how  they  were  continually 
worrying  over  what  this  or  that  person  had  said  or 
might  say.  As  a  direct  result  of  that  early  influence, 
I  had  acquired  a  habit  of  doing  the  same  thing.  In 
my  first  few  years  in  America  I  carried  it  to  such 
an  extreme  that  I  was  continually  changing  my 
course  of  action  to  suit  what  this  man  or  that  man 
had  said.  This  caused  me  not  a  little  trouble,  and 
has  had  a  more  or  less  detrimental  and  permanent 
effect  upon  my  life.  Possibly  some  of  it  was  due 
to  the  inexperience  of  youth,  yet  I  believe  it  was 
more  deep-seated  than  that.  At  any  rate,  I  at- 
tribute my  present  attitude  to  my  contact  with 
America. 

One  of  the  first  sayings  I  learned  in  America,  and 
which  has  had  a  profound  influence  upon  my  thought 
life  was  this.  Some  one,  apparently  taking  excep- 
tion with  Shakespeare's  famous  dictum,  "Conscience 
makes  cowards  of  us  all,"  remarked,  "It  is  not 
conscience,  but  cowardice  that  makes  slaves  of  us 
all."  That  is,  it  is  not  our  deepest  convictions  nor 
what  our  inmost  selves  dictates  that  makes  us  cow- 
ards, but  rather  our  fear  of  what  people  wUl  say 
if  we  put  into  action  our  inmost  convictions.  In 


284  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


powerful  lines,  which  I  find  myself  repeating  often, 
Browning,  in  his  "Paracelsus"  has  expressed,  indi- 
rectly and  in  a  positive  sense,  tliis  same  idea: 

"Truth  is  within  ourselves;  it  takes  no  rise 
From  outward  things,  whate'er  you  may  believe. 
There  is  an  inmost  center  in  us  aJl, 
Where  truth  abides  in  fullness.    .    .  . 

 and  to  Know 

Rather  consists  in  opening  out  a  way 
Whence  that  imprisoned  splendor  may  escape." 

In  quoting  these  lines,  I  generally  substitute  the 
word  "Uve"  for  "know,"  and  thereby  I  have  in  con- 
crete form  another  plank  in  my  American  philosophy 
of  life. 

Another  striking  change  which  has  taken  place  in 
my  way  of  looking  at  Ufe  and  which  is  directly  due 
to  my  residence  in  America  is  my  conception  of  real 
as  contrasted  with  what  I  might  call  inherited 
worth.  In  this  connection,  it  wiU  doubtless  come 
to  your  mind  as  it  does  to  mine,  how  deeply  we 
were  impressed  in  our  youth  with  the  thought  that 
our  ancestors  were  great  people  and  the  thought 
was  often  implied,  if  not  expressed,  that  their  great- 
ness was  enough  to  make  us  great,  or  at  least  to 
give  us  an  honorable  place  in  society  and  assure  us 
our  livelihood.  We  were  to  reap  not  what  we  would 
sow,  but  what  they  had  sown.  I  was  particularly 
a  slave  to  this  conception  of  worth  on  account  of 
my  bearing  our  hero  grandfather's  name  and  of 
being  told,  times  without  number,  that  I  was  to  be 
great,  not  because  of  any  particular  merit  of  my 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  285 


own,  but  because  I  was  the  direct  representative  of 
our  revered  ancestor.  I  lived  in  that  consciousness 
throughout  my  youth  and  sincerely  believed  that  it 
would  make  a  comfortable  and  worthy  life  possible 
for  me. 

On  my  arrival  in  the  United  States,  that  idea  was 
as  powerful  as  ever  with  me.  However,  it  did  not 
take  me  long  to  discover  its  utter  inconsistency  with 
the  life  of  people  here.  They  have  no  family  trees 
of  which  to  boast,  no  class  distinctions  to  speak  of, 
no  nobility  or  caste  of  any  kind,  and  they  make  no 
talk  of  ancestors,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  who 
claim  descendence  from  the  "Mayflower  Pilgrims." 
These  last  are  publicly  ridiculed  for  making  such 
boasts.  In  my  early  residence  here,  I  used  often  to 
boast  of  the  fact  that  I  was  descended  from  such  a 
line  of  people  as  ours.  My  listeners  would  look  at 
me  in  a  blank  and  uninterested  manner,  offering  no 
comment  or  praise.  This  would  annoy  me  and  I 
would  say  to  myself :  "Stupidi."  But  as  I  learned 
more  and  more  of  the  simple  unostentatiousness  of 
American  life,  I  came  to  love  it,  and  I  realized 
that  it  was  after  all  the  very  highest  attitude  to 
take  toward  life.  They  place  a  value  here  on  a  man's 
own  worth  and  character,  be  he  the  descendant  of 
the  humblest  peasant  or  of  the  highest  lord.  Here 
poor  men  have  the  chance  to,  and  often  do,  become 
rich;  here  a  person  of  the  humblest  birth,  like  the 
immortal  Lincoln,  may  even  become  president;  here 


286  ruE  SOUL  of  an  immigrant 

a  person  of  modest  circumstances  is  intrinsically  on 
a  par  witii  the  rich ;  here  all  men  are  equal,  at  least 
they  have  an  equal  opportunity  to  get  on  in  life, 
according  to  their  ability  and  ambition. 

Here  people  also  emphasize  progression  in  worth; 
not  what  a  man  has  been,  not  even  what  he  now  is, 
but  what  he  aims  to  be.  This  thought  is  character- 
istic of  the  best  in  America.  It  was  first  brought 
to  my  attention  very  forcefully  by  two  lines  of 
Lowell,  an  American  poet.  I  saw  them  only  once  on 
a  motto  in  a  book  store  one  day,  about  five  years 
after  my  arrival  in  America.  They  bore  such  a 
contrast  to  my  wonted  mode  of  thought  that  though 
I  have  not  seen  them  since  that  day  I  still  remember 
them  as  if  I  had  read  them  to-day.  These  are  the 
lines : 

"To  change  and  change  is  life,  to  move  and  not  to  rest, 
Not  what  we  are,  but  what  we  hope,  is  best." 

In  those  lines  I  saw  then,  as  I  have  seen  more  and 
more  in  the  years  that  have  followed,  what  I  con- 
sider one  of  the  most  outstanding  characteristics  of 
American  thought-life ;  its  mobility,  its  spontaneity, 
its  freedom  coupled  with  an  ever-expanding  hfe,  the 
foundation  and  the  aim  of  which  is  real  worth,  and 
not  a  consideration  of  what  I  have  termed  one's 
inJierited  worth. 

This  leads  me  to  the  next  distinctly  American 
characteristic  of  life  wliich  I  have  come  to  adopt 
as  a  part  of  my  philosophy  and  practice.    I  refer 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  287 


to  the  practicalibity  of  American  ways.  That  my 
conception  of  life  should  have  been  idealistic,  in  fact 
ultra-idealistic,  might  well  have  been  expected.  For 
not  only  is  the  temperament  of  our  people,  as  of 
all  the  Latin  races,  one  of  idealism,  but  I  had,  as 
an  individual,  been  brought  up,  perhaps  more  than 
the  rest  of  you  in  our  home,  in  an  atmosphere  sur- 
charged with  idealism.  I  need  only  to  refer  again 
to  the  ideal  goal  which  grandmother  had  set  before 
me.  And  as  you  know,  father  himself  was  so 
idealistic  that  he  was  continually  finding  it  difficult 
to  face  the  realities  of  life;  he  lived  so  much  in  the 
realm  of  the  ideal  that,  with  all  his  powers,  he  died 
comparatively  poor. 

When  I  first  reached  this  country  I  busied  myself 
so  much  with  high  and  lofty  ideals  that  I  suffered 
considerably,  so  far  as  the  practical  side  of  life  was 
concerned.  I  was  continually  dreaming  great 
dreams  of  what  I  was  govng  to  do  some  day,  but  I 
never  busied  myself  with  even  beginning  to  do  the 
great  things,  or  even  with  making  practical  plans 
as  to  how  I  was  to  actualize  them.  I  made  much 
of  conditions.  "Some  day,"  I  would  say  to  myself, 
"when  conditions  become  favorable,  I  will  do  this 
or  that." 

The  one  thing  which  above  all  else  focused  my 
attention  upon  the  futility  of  looking  at  life  in  this 
way,  was  an  incident  which  took  place  while  I  was 
working  in  Boston.    One  day  we  had  a  meeting  of 


288  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

the  committee  of  the  institution  of  which  I  had 
charge.  I  made  a  short  talk  in  which  I  outlined 
the  things  I  was  planning  to  do  as  soon  as 
conditions  were  right.  I  thought  I  had  made  a 
splendid  impression.  At  the  close  of  the  meeting, 
he  whom  I  call  my  American  "Big  Brother" 
walked  out  with  me.  As  we  were  quite  intimate  with 
one  another,  I  naturally  was  expecting  a  compli- 
ment from  him.  To  my  surprise,  however,  he  turned 
on  me  rather  sharply,  and  said,  "I  am  tired  of  hear- 
ing you  talk  about  your  dreams,  of  what  you  are 
going  to  do.  Your  ideals  are  all  right,  but  what 
about  the  practical  working  out  of  them.''  Why 
don't  you  'get  down  to  brass  tacks'  and  tell  us  what 
you  have  already/  done?" 

I  was  dumfounded  and  I  confess  it  hurt  me. 
But  from  that  day  I  began  to  observe  life  as 
I  saw  it  around  me  in  America.  I  gradually  came 
to  the  conviction  that  one  of  its  outstanding  char- 
acteristics is  its  practicabiUty,  not  the  less  idealistic, 
but  rather  a  practical  idealism.  Perhaps  I  have 
had  a  greater  fight  in  stri^^ng  to  acquire  this  element 
of  my  American  philosophy  of  life  than  any  other. 
I  am  profoundly  grateful  that  I  have  been  privileged 
to  see  the  difference  and  to  have  had  a  chance  to 
strive  for  its  realization  in  my  life. 

To  another  friend  I  am  indebted  for  my  awaken- 
ing along  another  line.  One  day  this  friend  and  I 
were  passing  through  a  western  city.    Stopping  at 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  289 


a  hotel,  we  went  up  to  the  desk  to  make  reservation 
for  the  night.  The  clerk  informed  us  that  the  house 
was  "full."  In  keeping  with  mj  Latin  temperament 
I  immediately  started  to  argue,  in  the  hope  of  mak- 
ing the  clerk  find  us  a  room,  when  my  friend  turned 
away  in  disgust  and  said:  "I  ask  no  favor  of  any 
man."  It  hurt  my  pride,  I  must  confess.  AU  our 
teachings,  you  know,  were  to  the  contrary ;  the  entire 
environment  of  our  childhood  had  taught  us  that 
the  asking  and  granting  of  favors  was  a  great  part 
of  life.  Favoritism  was  the  very  essence  of  every- 
day conduct.  Father  taught  us  this  proverb:  Ask 
your  way  and  you  will  find  the  road  to  Rome.  It 
was  the  philosophy  of  dependence  and  I  often  won- 
der whether  it  may  not  be  in  part  responsible  for 
the  lack  of  real  independence,  and  for  the  wide 
prevalence  of  mendicantism  and  pauperism  in  some 
European  countries. 

Again  I  turned  to  American  life  as  a  field  of 
observation.  Soon  I  discovered  that  this  was  not 
merely  a  characteristic  of  my  friend  who  had  turned 
in  disgust  from  me,  but  a  typical  trait  of  American 
conduct.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  began  to  see  the 
absence  of  beggars  from  the  streets ;  then  I  began 
to  note  the  way  poverty  and  pauperism  are  frowned 
upon  in  this  country ;  then  I  learned  that  dependence 
in  any  walk  of  life  is  contrary  to  the  highest  form 
of  thought  and  conduct  in  America ;  for  here  self- 
reliance  and  mdependence  are  cardinal  virtues. 


290  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


Above  all,  these  years  in  America  have  taught  me 
the  power  and  the  value  of  optimism.  Here  again 
the  contrast  between  the  old  and  the  new  is  very 
striking.  Our  tendency  was  toward  somber  pessi- 
mism. Our  entire  environment  breathed  forth  that 
point  of  view.  Perhaps  it  could  not  have  been 
otherwise.  The  death  of  one  grandfather  by 
poisoning  and  the  other  by  drowning  at  sea  was 
enough  in  itself  to  make  the  next  and  the  next  gen- 
eration somber  and  sad.  Mother,  looked  down  upon 
by  her  kinsfolk  because  of  her  humble  birth,  led  a 
saddened  life.  Father  in  his  struggle  against  po- 
litical corruption  died  almost  broken-hearted,  feel- 
ing that  his  life  and  ideals  were  not  sufficiently  ap- 
preciated. While  in  my  own  tossings  about  the 
world  I  had  come  to  feel  that  this  was  anything  but 
a  gladsome  existence. 

Nor  was  this  the  whole  story.  The  surroundings 
of  our  child-world  were  destined  to  create  pessimism 
in  our  thought.  We  saw  people  burdened  down  by 
extreme  poverty,  their  backs  bent  beneath  an  in- 
tolerable load  of  taxes,  which  reached  down  to  the 
very  last  match  they  burned.  Family  after  farail}' 
was  deprived  of  the  earnings  of  their  young  men, 
who  M'ere  snatched  away  into  continuous  wars.  We 
saw  many  families  all  but  torn  asunder  in  this 
manner,  while  the  parent  emigrated  to  some  other 
country  in  search  of  bread  for  his  brood,  which  he 
could  not  earn  at  home.    Added  to  this  was  tlie 


AMERICAN   PHILOSOPHY   OF  LIFE  291 


morbidness  of  our  religious  teachings.  When  death 
entered  a  family,  the  tears,  the  mourning,  the  doleful 
faces  and  somber  black  veils  continued  for  years. 
When  adversity  overtook  a  family  or  any  member  of 
it,  recourse  was  had  not  in  seeking  to  recover  losses 
or  make  readjustments,  but  in  tears,  tears  and  more 
tears.  Our  people  did  not  know  what  it  was  to 
"consider  the  lilies  of  the  field." 

Do  you  believe  that  a  person  can  live  in  such  an 
environment  during  the  formative  years  without 
being  affected  by  it,  perhaps  for  life?  I  am  sorry 
to  say  I  had  been  greatly  influenced  by  this  mode 
of  thought.  And  the  fact  that  during  the  first  years 
of  my  life  in  America  I  had  accidentally  lived  in 
the  midst  of  a  certain  restricted  and  narrow  Puri- 
tanical environment,  only  added  to  my  original  pes- 
simistic outlook. 

It  was  Browning  who  first  penetrated  my  being 
with  the  rays  of  radiant  optimism;  it  was  he  who 
taught  me  to  "greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer."  The 
optimism  of  American  life  was  first  strikingly  illus- 
trated to  me  by  the  hilarious  and  exuberant  cheering 
of  men  and  women  over  a  football  game.  What 
astounded  me  most  was  to  see  them  cheer  when  their 
team  was  losing  as  well  as  when  it  was  winning,  as 
if  to  say  "we  will  yet  win"  and  as  if  thereby  to  over- 
come all  obstacles  to  victory.  It  was  the  radiant 
joy,  the  bright  hope  back  of  that  kind  of  a  cheering 
in  life  that  appealed  to  me.    When  I  first  recognized 


292  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


that  underlying  optimism  everything  seemed  to  say: 
"The  whole  of  life  is  a  game,  a  game  fit  for  joy,  for 
expression,  gladsome  expression."  Here  again 
Browning  says : 

"Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping  from  rock  to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver 
shock 

Of  a  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water.  .  .  . 

How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living!  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy." 

All  that  these  lines  meant  to  me  you  can  realize  when 
you  remember  how  again  and  again  I  had  received 
a  severe  thrashing  for  "leaping  from  rock  to  rock" 
or  for  the  "rending  of  boughs"  and  for  plunging  in 
the  sea's  "li\ang  water."  In  Italy  I  had  been  pun- 
ished for  the  very  thing  that  in  America  make  up 
the  beauty  and  the  substance  of  life. 

The  longer  I  live  in  America  the  more  I  come  to 
feel  that  optimism  is  vibrant  in  the  very  air  we 
breathe.  I  find  that  people  here  have  no  patience 
with  a  pessimist  human  being.  I  hear  people  say: 
"Sure,  this  world  is  full  of  trouble  .  .  .  but,  say, 
ain't  it  fine  to-day?"  I  have  been  present  at  funerals 
where  there  was  all  the  occasion  in  the  world  to 
weep  indefinitely,  but  where  I  have  seen  exhibited 
the  greatest  of  fortitude  and  optimism;  I  have  seen 
people  in  America  face  all  kinds  of  adversities  with 
a  spirit  of  superb  courage.  In  peoples  of  the  West 
I  have  seen  the  positive  workings  of  this  optimism 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  293 

in  a  special  way.  It  may  be  that  it  is  due  in  no 
small  measure  to  the  grandeur,  the  sunshine  and  the 
exuberance  which  God  has  showered  in  such  abun- 
dance upon  those  vast  and  magnificent  stretches ! 
Whatever  the  reason,  their  optimism  grips  the 
very  soul  of  me.  I  know  a  "Little  Woman" 
in  the  West  who,  though  she  has  borne  endless 
pain  and  grief,  stiU  is  the  very  embodiment  of 
optimistic  joy.  I  never  think  of  her  but  that 
I  think  of  "Pippa  Passes."  I  remember  also 
meeting  a  man  once  on  the  prairies  of  Colorado,  who 
the  night  before  had  suffered  a  serious  loss  by  fire, — 
his  barns,  hay  and  cattle, — practically  all  he  had  in 
life.  Knowing  this,  as  he  drew  near  I  prepared  myself 
to  listen  to  his  sad  story  and  to  offer  my  sympathy. 
To  my  surprise,  he  had  no  sad  story  to  teU,  and 
when  asked  about  his  loss  by  an  interested  relative 
of  his  who  was  accompanying  me,  he  made  some 
brief,  care-free  remark  and,  Lighting  his  pipe, 
whipped  his  horse  and  went  on  to  the  city  to  buy 
lumber  to  build  more  barns,  singing  and  greeting 
the  unseen  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  would  not 
say  this  kind  of  outlook  on  life  does  not  exist  else- 
where, but  I  have  seen  it  lived  in  America  as  nowhere 
else  on  earth. 

These,  in  a  general  way,  are  the  changes  which 
have  come  over  my  thought-life  through  years  of 
residence  in  America.  I  hope  I  have  satisfactorily 
answered  your  question.    You  may  not  think  them 


294  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


worthy  changes,  but  I  can  sincerely  say  that  I  am 
profoundly  grateful  to  America  and  to  the  American 
people  for  them.  I  am  grateful  for  having  had  the 
privilege  of  association  with  some  real  representative 
Americans  and  of  rubbing  shoulders  with  them  and 
of  absorbing  something  of  their  view  of  life.  I  am 
in  a  special  way  happy  to  have  learned  the  English 
language  and  through  its  medium  to  have  become 
acquainted  with  the  stalwart  thought  of  the  master 
minds  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  Through  it  also  I 
have  come  to  know,  and  in  a  measure  to  appropriate, 
the  sturdy  and  wholesome  philosophy  of  the  life  of 
the  American  people.  I  am  particular!}^  grateful 
to  those  American  men  and  women  who  by  personal 
contact  have  brought  me  this  awakening. 

Did  I  say  "American  men  and  women"?  Let  us 
study  a  moment  the  persons  to  whom  I  have  referred. 
The  family  which  moved  from  southern  California 
to  Maine  and  which  so  impressed  me  with  the  mo- 
bility of  American  life  was  originally  from  England; 
the  young  lawyer  was  a  French-Canadian ;  Tennyson 
and  his  "lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 
world"  an  Englishman ;  so  was  Browning  with  his 
freedom  from  the  shackles  of  others'  opinions  and 
his  optimism;  my  American  "Big  Brother"  and 
his  "brass  tacks"  philosophy  is  of  Dutch  descent; 
my  friend  of  the  "I-ask-no-favor-of-any-man"  inci- 
dent is  a  staunch  Scotchman;  the  "Pippa  Passes" 
referred  to  has  a  name  that  savors  much  of  the  fair 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE  295 

Emerald  Isle.  And  so  on.  The  only  one  who  taught 
me  a  great  lesson  and  who  might  liave  been  said  to  be 
"natively  extracted"  was  Lowell.  Doubtless  it  was 
not  their  fault  that  I  did  not  receive  more  help  from 
people  who  fall  in  this  category,  but  the  point  I 
want  to  make  is  this:  that  after  all  we  all  "came 
over"  sometime !  To  me  therein  hes  the  great  glory 
of  America;  that  she  can  take  the  rough  and  un- 
finished material  from  many  lands  and  climes  and 
so  shape  it,  as  a  master  shapes  his  clay,  that  they 
who  learn  of  her,  who  drink  at  the  fountains  of 
her  real  life,  who  learn  to  love  her,  actually  become 
different  beings. 

I  take  my  hat  oE  to  the  typical  American  and  I 
am  profoundly  grateful  to  have  known  him.  Speaks 
he  a  "slanted"  tongue  or  a  mellifluent  and  ever  so 
pure  a  brogue,  so  long  as  he  is  the  embodiment  of 
the  spirit  of  America  he  is  my  man.  He  whose  life 
is  free  to  move  about  wherever  the  call  is  greatest; 
who  is  free  from  the  thralldom  of  petty  convention- 
alities and  the  nagging  opinions  of  others ;  he  who 
is  idealistic  and  yet  practical ;  who  emphasizes  worth 
above  appearance  and  who  greets  the  unseen  with  a 
buoyant  cheer, — he  is  my  man,  he  is  my  American, 
he  is  the  man  whom  I  am  glad  to  have  known,  and 
the  man  whom  I  love  with  all  the  warmth  of  my 
Southern  soul. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

Constantme. 


homb! 


Be  it  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise, 
We  love  the  play-place  of  our  early  days. 
The  scene  is  touching  and  the  heart  is  stone 
That  feels  not  at  that  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 


This  fond  attachment  to  the  well-known  place 
Whence  first  we  started  into  life's  long  race. 
Maintains  its  hold  with  unfailing  sway. 
We  feel  it  e'en  in  age  and  our  latest  day. 

William  Cowveu. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


HOME  ! 

FIFTEEN  years  had  now  passed  since  landing 
in  this  country.  During  all  this  time  my 
people  had  never  ceased  to  entreat  me  to 
return,  and  I  had  ever  kept  before  me  the  dream  of 
going  back,  at  least  for  a  brief  visit.  I  had  planned 
each  year  to  do  so,  but  never  had  enough  money  to 
make  the  trip.  That  I  had  worked  faithfully  and 
continuously  no  one  could  question ;  many  times  not 
eight  or  ten  hours  a  day,  but  fourteen  and  six- 
teen; and  I  had  even  done  night  work  in  order 
to  make  both  ends  meet.  I  had  driven  myself  so 
hard  and  so  incessantly  that  vigor  and  health  were 
fast  slipping  away.  Again  and  again  I  was  forced 
to  count  the  pennies,  wondering  what  further  sacri- 
fices I  could  possibly  make  that  I  might  have  just 
enough  for  a  visit  home.  There  were  times  when 
a  longing  for  the  sight  of  my  people  was  almost 
unbearable.  All  that  I  had  gone  through  in  America 
would  make  itself  felt  with  a  tremendous  accumula- 
tive power.  I  could  again  see  my  meager  earnings  be- 
ing taken  away  f  rora  me ;  I  could  feel  anew  the  bitter 

[299] 


300  TKE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


insvdts,  the  unfavorable  discrimination,  the  ridicule, 
the  prejudice;  I  could  see  again  the  prison  walls 
within  which  I  had  been  enclosed ;  I  could  experience 
again  the  pangs  of  hunger,  the  shivering  cold,  the 
hateful  persecutions,  the  awful,  terrible  lonehness. 
My  soul  would  almost  cry  out  in  madness  for  just 
a  glimpse  of  those  I  loved  and  had  "lost  a  while." 
With  a  wide  ocean  lying  between,  and  with  no  money 
with  which  to  go  and  return  to  America,  my  dream 
of  seeing  my  people  again  was  fast  vanishing. 

"And  return  to  America,"  I  said.  For  now  I  was 
of  America.  Sometimes  I  would  wonder  just  how 
I  would  feel  if  I  were  suddenly  placed  among  my 
relatives  in  Italy.  Would  I,  after  all,  feel  at  home 
even  for  a  day?  Would  I  want  to  remain  in  Italy, 
should  the  opportunity  arise,  and  enter  some  form 
of  public  Hfe  there?    I  did  not  know. 

Then  came  the  World  War  and  thoughts  some- 
tliing  like  these  ran  through  my  mind.  Suppose  that 
Italy  should  side  with  one  of  the  powers  and 
America  with  another,  just  where  would  I  stand, 
just  where  would  my  loyalty  lie?  The  answer  came 
in  an  unforeseen  manner.  One  day  I  chanced  to  be 
in  Plymouth,  Massachusetts.  Naturally  I  went  to 
visit  Plymouth  Rock  with  a  group  of  friends.  I 
was  standing  upon  the  Rock  when  patriotic  emo- 
tions which  I  had  never  experienced  before  gripped 
me  and  a  sudden  revelation  of  all  that  America  had 
stood  for  throughout  its  history  and  what  it  had 


HOME  I 


301 


meant  to  me,  dawned  upon  me  in  a  forceful  manner. 
With  the  least  possibility  of  harm  coming  to  Amer- 
ica, it  was  borne  in  upon  my  consciousness  what  She 
now  meant  to  me.  America  in  aU  her  fullness  was 
the  very  life  of  me.  Later  America  entered  the 
War.  One  evening  I  was  walking  through  the  Com- 
mon when  I  looked  up  and  there,  high  above  my 
head,  on  the  roof  of  one  of  the  highest  buildings 
facing  the  historical  grounds,  and  shot  through  with 
a  radiant  light,  I  saw  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 
refulgent  and  glorious  in  her  streaming.  Again  an 
inexplicable  something  gripped  the  very  soul  of  me 
and  I  worshiped  as  if  at  a  shrine.  Where  would  my 
loyalty  lie?  No  answer!  I  have  often  wondered 
since  then  whether  native-born  Americans  ever  feel 
anything  like  what  I  felt  on  those  two  occasions. 

And  it  was  that  very  vision  that,  by  a  series  of 
unforeseen  circumstances,  was  to  lead  me  back  to 
my  native  Italy.  Even  before  America  declared 
war,  I  offered  myself  to  the  Government  for  military 
service.  When  enlistments  began,  I  twice  volunteered 
in  the  hope  that,  notwithstanding  my  defective  eye,  I 
might  get  into  the  ranks  before  the  authorities 
should  become  too  particular.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  disappointing  experiences  of  my  life  to  be  re- 
jected. I  still  sought  a  possible  way  of  serving  this 
country  in  the  war.  Finally,  as  a  last  resort,  I 
enlisted  for  service  with  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  went 
to  France.    I  had  been  there  about  a  month  and  a 


302  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


half  when  I  was  ordered  to  go  to  Italy,  with  the 
first  Y.  M.  C.  A.  party,  five  in  all,  sent  to  that 
country. 

Headed  by  that  man  of  magnificent  spirit,  Doctor 
John  S.  Nollen,  formerly  president  of  Lake  Forest 
University,  on  January  3,  1918,  we  crossed  the 
French-Italian  border  at  Modane.  As  the  train 
slowly  wound  its  way  down  into  the  valley,  the  cold, 
ugly  fogs  of  northern  France  gave  way  to  the 
radiant  sunshine  of  Italy.  The  warm  sun  rays  were 
flooding  the  plains  below.  The  mountains,  snow- 
capped, stood  out  clear-cut  as  diamonds,  as  if  God 
had  made  them  that  very  morning.  Italy  was  won- 
derful ;  Italy  of  my  childhood.  A  flood  of  emotion 
surged  through  my  being,  warm  as  the  sun  rays, 
pure  as  the  summit  snows.  For  a  time  I  closed  my 
eyes  ;  I  could  not  bear  the  glory  of  the  sight ;  at  last 
I  was  in  my  native  Italy !  Donizetti's  famous  lines 
and  strains  of  music  came  to  my  mind: 

mf 


Oh,    I  -  tal  -  ia,     I  -  tal  -  ia     be  -  lov   -  ed,    Land  of 


beau  -  ty,   of  sun  -  light  and  song ! —  Tho'   a-far  from  thy 


bright  skies  re-mov  -  ed.  Still  our  fond  hearts  for  thee  ev-er  long ! 


home! 


303 


It  was  my  good  fortune  to  visit  my  people  soon 
after  my  arrival  in  Italy.  There  was  an  important 
errand  to  be  done  in  connection  with  the  American 
Aviators  who  were  then  located  at  Foggia,  and  I 
was  detailed  to  do  it.  Naturally,  since  I  was  so 
near,  I  seized  the  opportunity  to  visit  my  native 
town  which  I  had  not  seen  for  these  many  years. 

On  my  way  from  Naples  to  Foggia,  while  passing 
through  that  delightful  country  which  Horace  so 
beautifully  painted  centuries  ago,  I  sat  reading  a 
book  about  that  section  of  Italy  and  meditating. 
Into  my  compartment  came  a  man  with  a  valise,  who 
from  his  appearance  I  recognized  as  a  late  comer 
from  America.  Seeing  me  in  the  American  uniform, 
he  at  once  opened  a  conversation  in  what  he  would 
have  called  English.  He  told  me  he  had  just  re- 
turned from  far-off  America,  how  many  years  he 
had  been  there,  what  a  good  country  it  was,  how 
much  money  he  had  made,  and  so  on.  I  do  not  know 
whether  he  thought  I  questioned  his  statements,  or 
that  I  did  not  understand  his  wretched  English,  but 
whatever  the  reason,  he  proceeded  to  furnish  proofs 
of  his  long  residence  in  America.  First  he  showed 
me  a  dollar  bill,  much  the  worse  for  wear;  then  a 
watch,  an  "IngersoU,"  and  a  cheap  chain.  Finally, 
he  opened  his  valise  and  showed  me  several  presents 
which  he  was  taking  to  his  relatives,  among  others  a 
much-prized  "Big  Ben"  which  he  was  taking  to  his 
aged  mother. 


304  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

We  came  to  a  small  station  and  the  man  left  with 
profuse  farewells.  Into  the  compartment  came  a 
group  of  five  beautiful  Italian  young  women.  They 
were  carrying  books  and  from  the  conversation 
which  I  overheard,  it  was  plain  they  were  going  to 
a  larger  village  to  attend  high  school.  As  they  went 
on  with  their  conversation,  I  once  more  took  up  my 
reading,  occasionally  overhearing  snatches  of  what 
they  were  saying.  Finally,  I  became  conscious  that 
their  remarks  were  directed  toward  "that  nice  young 
American"  who  was  reading  all  by  himself,  and  of 
course,  they  thought,  not  understanding  a  word 
they  were  saying.  One  of  the  girls  had  a  beautiful 
orange,  hanging  from  a  long  stem  with  four  or  five 
leaves  on  it.  From  its  freshness,  it  was  clear  that 
the  orange  had  just  been  plucked  from  a  tree.  Their 
conversation  continued  to  center  round  "that  nice 
young  American"  and  his  country,  America.  One 
of  them  said,  "Wouldn*t  it  be  nice  to  go  to  America 
with  him?"  To  this  all  agreed.  Gradually  they 
began  to  joke  with  each  other  as  to  who  would  be 
the  one  to  go.  All  this  time,  of  course,  I  gave  no 
indication  that  I  understood  a  word  they  were 
saying.  Finally,  one  suggested  that  the  girl  who  had 
the  orange  should  have  the  preference.  And  she 
was  as  beautiful  a  specimen  of  womanhood  as  Italy 
knows  how  to  produce.  They  suggested  that  if  she 
would  only  offer  me  her  orange  I  would  surely  take 
her  to  America  with  me.    She  blushed,  and  to  ward 


home! 


305 


off  the  attack  which  was  now  centering  upon  her, 
she  said:  "No,  I  won't  give  him  the  orange,  even 
to  go  to  America,"  but  she  added:  "Well,  I  might 
give  him  the  stem  and  the  leaves."  This  was  more 
than  I  could  resist.  So  rising  and  walking  up  to 
her,  I  made  my  best  bow  and  said  in  as  good  Italian 
as  I  could  command :  "Thank  you,  gracious 
(graziosa)  young  lady,  I  will  take  you  to  America 
for  the  stem  and  the  leaves."  The  screams,  the 
laughter,  the  blushes  which  followed  can  easily 
be  imagined,  but  just  then  the  train  pulled  into  the 
station  to  which  the  young  women  were  going,  and 
they  precipitately  left  the  compartment  pell-mell 
amid  laughter  and  shouts  which  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  all.  I  stood  by  the  window  and  waved 
them  a  good-by. 

The  train  wound  its  way  down  the  mountainous 
path  and  was  soon  at  Foggia.  I  did  the  errand 
which  had  brought  me  there,  and  soon  was  speeding 
toward  my  native  Molfetta.  I  had  in  the  meantime 
sent  a  telegram  to  Aunt  Rose  stating  that  I  would 
arrive  on  a  certain  train.  The  time  consumed  by 
that  journey  from  Foggia  to  Molfetta  seemed  like 
ages.  The  trainman  came  into  my  compartment  to 
talk  about  America.  But  I  led  him  to  talk  about 
that  section  of  Italy.  He  told  me  of  its  history, 
its  general  contour,  the  location  of  the  various  cities 
and  villages,  not  knowing  that  I  knew  all  about  it. 
Then  he  entered  upon  an  account  of  the  advance 


300  THE   SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


that  Italy,  and  especially  Puglia,  had  made  in  recent 
years ;  tlie  opening  up  of  new  railroads,  the  making 
of  double  track  lines,  the  building  of  an  aqueduct 
stretching  for  miles  from  the  mountainous  regions 
near  Foggia  through  the  whole  length  of  the 
province,  the  building  of  electric  plants,  the  indus- 
trial expansion  of  Bari,  all  of  which  was  exceedingly 
interesting  to  me. 

At  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  conductor 
passed  through  the  corridor  and  shouted  "M  o  1  - 
f  e  1 1  a."  I  took  my  suitcase  and  dismounted.  No 
sooner  had  I  left  the  train  than  I  heard  a  voice  in 
the  distance  shout,  like  an  unexpected  call  of 
anguish  in  the  night:  "Costantino."  No  one  was 
on  the  platform.  The  police  guard  was  keeping 
every  one  back  in  the  street.  He  scrutinized  me  in 
a  special  way,  examined  my  papers,  and  let  me  pass. 
I  pressed  through  a  number  of  people  who  were 
crowding  around  the  gate  and  the  next  moment  I 
was  in  his  arms.  It  was  my  good  Uncle  Carlo. 
"Zio"  (uncle)  I  said,  as  he  pressed  me  close  to  him 
and  passed  his  hand  gently  over  my  face.  "It  is 
eighteen  years  almost  to  a  day  since  you  saw  me  off 
at  this  very  station.  I  thought  I  should  never  see 
you  again." 

He  took  my  suitcase  from  my  hand  and  locking 
his  arm  within  mine,  led  me  on,  as  if  feeling  a  special 
paternal  pride.  We  walked  in  almost  complete 
silence.    It  was  one  of  those  moonlight  nights  of 


home! 


307 


Southern  Italy,  when  the  sky  is  so  infinitely  clear 
and  the  air  so  balmy  as  to  make  one  forget  that 
winter  ever  existed.  The  long  dark  shadows  of  the 
low,  flat  buildings  covered  the  narrow  streets,  the 
slender  ash  trees  near  the  station  and  in  the  Villa 
Garibaldi,  which  we  passed,  were  standing  like  silent 
sentinels  as  of  yore.  In  the  distance  I  could  see 
the  Campanile  rising  above  the  Cathedral.  All  was 
at  peace.  But  all  was  changed.  The  shadows,  the 
streets,  the  houses,  the  trees,  the  public  buildings 
were  all  the  same, — and  yet  so  changed.  Why  did 
they  look  so  small?  What  are  these.?  Are  they  the 
same  houses  which  had  towered  so  high  above  my 
head  when  a  boy?  Are  these  the  same  streets  which 
had  seemed  so  spacious  and  which  it  had  taken  my 
little  legs  so  long  to  traverse?  Are  these  the  same 
"portoni"  which  had  seemed  to  my  child  eyes  as 
gates  to  fairy  castles?  Are  these  the  same  trees 
which  once  had  reached  the  very  zenith  of  my  child- 
hood skies?  Why  are  things  so  shrunken,  so  small? 
Is  the  Molfetta  of  my  boyhood  days  after  all  a  toy 
thing  ? 

Such  thoughts  crowded  one  after  another  in  rapid 
succession  through  my  mind  as  I  walked  along  by 
the  side  of  Uncle  Carlo.  At  last  we  reached  the  very 
house  in  which,  with  grandmother,  I  had  spent  most 
of  my  childhood  and  boyhood  days.  At  the  door 
was  Aunt  Rose,  quivering  with  emotion.  She,  more 
than  all  the  others,  had  been  the  faithful  one  in  writ- 


308  THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

ing  to  me,  in  keeping  in  touch  with  all  my  doings  in 
far-away  America ;  the  one  who  had  again  and  again 
pleaded  with  me  to  return,  and  had  offered  to  send 
me  the  money  to  do  so,  if  I  only  would.  Now  in  a 
moment  she  gave  vent  to  all  the  pent-up  feelings  of 
the  years.  The  first  words  she  uttered,  as  her  arms 
pressed  me  close  and  her  warm  kisses  and  warmer 
tears  touched  my  face,  were:  "I  thank  Thee,  God. 
I  have  seen  him.  Now  I  am  ready  to  die."  In  the 
next  few  moments  she  lived  over  all  the  years  since 
we  had  seen  each  other.  Much  that  followed  is  too 
sacred  to  narrate.  I  was  thankful  that  I  had  ar- 
rived at  night,  and  so  late  that  I  had  avoided  the 
conspicuous  attention  which  my  uniform  would  have 
given  me,  and  had  escaped  meeting  the  large  group 
of  friends  and  relatives  all  at  once. 

That  night  I  slept  in  the  very  bed  in  which  I  had 
lain  as  a  boy,  with  the  same  old  posts  and  the  same 
quaint  canopy  covering  it  as  of  old.  But  now  it 
was  not  quite  long  enough  for  my  outstretched  body. 
I  slept  and  I  did  not  sleep.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could 
see  my  uncle  going  toward  the  balcony  to  fill  my 
Santa  Claus  boot,  as  on  that  night  long  ago  when 
I  had  first  learned  that  Uncle  Carlo  was  Santa,  and 
I  had  loved  him  all  the  more.  The  next  morning, 
long  before  I  had  risen,  my  little  nephews  and  nieces 
— and  it  seemed  their  name  was  legion — who  had 
learned  of  my  arrival,  tiptoed  into  the  room  in 
which  they  thought  I  was  asleep,  to  view  their  long- 


H  O  M  E  I 


309 


lost  uncle  of  whom  they  had  heard  so  much  and 
who  had  become  the  household  saint  of  the  whole 
family.  One  after  another  they  ran  back  to  their 
parents  with  descriptions  of  him, — how  he  looked, 
how  long  he  was,  that  his  feet  almost  stuck  out  from 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  that  he  was  almost  bald,  had  no 
mustaches,  and  had  a  big  nose.  When  the  reports 
they  had  carried  to  their  parents  came  back  to  me, 
I  had  all  I  could  do  to  recognize  myself.  As  soon 
as  the  long  line  of  nephews  and  nieces  had  come  to 
an  end,  even  as  I  was  having  a  moment  to  rise  and 
dress,  in  began  to  file  an  equally  long  line  of  sisters, 
uncles  and  aunts,  and  I  even  had  to  wash  the  shaving 
lather  from  my  face  to  do  my  duty  by  one  of  my 
sisters,  Agata,  the  j  oiliest  of  them  all.  In  the  mean- 
time, that  dear  old  aunt  of  mine,  Aunt  Rose,  stood 
by  with  her  bosom  heaving,  witnessing  the  whole 
proceeding  like  a  sentinel,  and  taking  a  maternal 
pride  in  what  was  going  on. 

I  had  scarcely  had  time  to  dress,  when  a  "banquet" 
was  ready  for  the  "distinguished"  guest.  I  won- 
dered how  they  got  so  many  relatives  into  so  small 
a  space.  I  was  not  surprised  that  they  had  sent  all 
the  children  off  to  play.  After  the  dinner  party, 
my  uncle  took  me  out  to  see  the  town  and  to  show 
me  off  to  it.  We  went  to  see  my  old  nurse  and  the 
old  shoemaker  who  had  made  all  my  shoes  in  my 
youth;  we  called  upon  some  former  pupils  of  my 
father,  now  grown  men  and  established  in  business. 


310  THE    SOUL   OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

I  had  now  and  then  to  accept  a  kiss  on  each  cheek, 
which,  strange  to  say,  was  not  qiaite  as  pleasing  to 
me  as  it  should  have  been.  I  had  been  in  America, 
where  kisses  are  reserved  for  a  special  kind  of 
creatures.  We  went  to  the  mole  and  the  harbor, 
both  of  which  had  seemed  so  enormous  to  me  in  my 
youth,  but  now  were  little  toy  things ;  we  passed 
through  the  Villa  Garibaldi,  a  small  round  patch  as 
compared  to  its  past  splendors.  The  clock  tower 
above  the  West  gate  had  been  torn  down.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  have  shrunken  to  miniature  size, 
while  my  boyhood  friends  had  grown  to  be  men,  and 
some  were  gone.  The  "big"  city  of  my  boyhood 
days  was  no  more. 

My  relatives  and  friends  asked  all  kinds  of  ques- 
tions about  America;  what  the  climate  and  the 
country  were  like;  what  the  living  conditions  were 
there;  was  it  true  that  money  was  in  great  abun- 
dance; what  were  the  chances  of  good  employment 
They  asked  no  questions  about  the  government  and 
the  general  life  of  the  country.  I  spoke  of  the  good 
tilings,  but  was  too  jealous  of  America  to  tell  them 
all  I  knew  of  the  life  of  the  immigrant  there,  or  even 
to  hint  at  some  of  the  things  that  I  myself  had  gone 
through.  They  would  have  been  shocked  beyond 
expression  to  have  learned  that  the  son  of  Don  Coli 
had  suffered  such  things  as  I  have  narrated  in  the 
preceding  pages.  When  they  asked  my  advice  about 
their  going  to  America,  I  could  not  honestly  counsel 


home! 


311 


them  to  do  so.  I  was  not  unmindful  of  the  practical 
misery  in  which  most  of  the  poorer  classes  live  in 
Italy,  but  even  misery  is  more  easily  endured  in  one's 
own  country.  When  I  gave  evasive  answers  or  was 
silent  in  the  face  of  their  persistent  questionings, 
they  were  astonished.  They  wondered  why  I  would 
not  remain  in  Italy  then?  I  shrugged  my  shoulders, 
Italian  style,  and  passed  to  the  next  question. 

That  night  I  again  returned  to  ,  the  home  of  my 
childhood  and  was  glad  that  my  relatives  were  con- 
siderate enough  to  leave  me  in  the  quiet  of  that  home 
with  my  good  aunt  and  uncle.  With  them  I  re- 
newed my  play  life.  We  played  hide-and-go-seek 
as  of  old ;  I  played  stealing  almonds  and  figs  as  once 
I  used  to  do  in  earnest ;  I  looked  over  all  my  little 
books  and  mementoes,  closely  guarded  by  Aunt  Rose 
through  all  the  years ;  I  examined  my  little  ships, 
some  of  which  hung  on  the  walls ;  I  sat  in  uncle's 
lap  and  put  on  his  nose  those  funny  old  glasses  he 
used  to  wear  when  he  would  read  to  me  those  fasci- 
nating sea  tales. 

But  through  it  all  I  was  conscious,  and  so  were 
they,  that  a  great  change  had  taken  place,  deeper 
and  more  significant  by  far  than  any  mere  physical 
change.  There  were  changes  in  training,  in  outlook, 
in  habits,  in  motives,  which  separated  us  forever. 
Aunt  Rose  pleaded  with  me  to  promise  that  I  would 
remain  with  her,  that  at  least  I  would  remain  in 
Italy  as  long  as  she  lived.    She  told  me  that  the 


312  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 

tract  of  land  and  the  "casino"  on  it,  which  she  had 
kept  for  me  all  these  years,  was  still  mine  and  that  I 
could  have  it  for  the  mere  staying  and  the  mere 
taking.  She  said  that  she  would  be  so  happy  if  I 
would  only  stay  with  her  until  she  died,  "only  a  few 
years  more."  I  remained  silent,  though  not  un- 
moved, comforting  her  with  a  word  now  and  then. 
"I  will  come  again,  aunt,"  I  said.  "I  will  come 
again."  She  understood !  I  was  no  more  of  this 
fair  clime — no  more! 


MY  FINAL  CHOICE 


Words  by  Henry  Van  Dyke.  Music  by  C.  Austin  Miles. 


Oh,  it's  home  a-gain,  and  home  agi 

 U  tL4  ,  1 

lin,    A-mer  -  i  -  ca  for 

1  1 

me!        I    want      a   ship  that's 
o  tempo 

 *  f  1"    1     1  1 

west  -  ward  bound,  to 

plough  the    roll  -  ing    sea,     To    the  bless  -      Land  of 
1            )  ^-^  TT  » — s—  i-1 

Room  Enough  be  -  yond    the  o 

— ^  L4  J,  ■« — 1 

•  cean  bars,  Where  the 

IW     1       ■!     *          '1*^1        if    9  ' 

air    is  full   of  sun-light,  and  the  flag    is  full    of  stars ! 


CHAPTER  XX 


MY  FINAL,  CHOICE 

THE  next  morning  I  left  Molfetta,  and  save  for 
a  visit  of  a  few  hours'  duration  which  I  made 
later,  I  returned  to  it  no  more.  In  forty- 
eight  hours  I  had  passed  from  the  peaceful  scenes 
and  the  reminiscences  of  my  childhood  into  the 
throbbing  activities  of  the  most  bloody  war  in 
human  history.  It  was  while  in  the  midst  of  these 
scenes  and  on  my  own  native  soil,  that  my  supreme 
choice  was  made. 

I  was  assigned  the  task  of  projecting  the  work 
of  the  "Y"  at  the  Italian  front,  and  by  a  series  of 
strange  circumstances  I  had  the  privilege  of  close 
contact  with  some  of  Italy's  most  eminent  men, 
both  in  military  and  civil  life,  and  was  permitted  to 
render  to  Italy,  in  the  name  of  my  adopted  country, 
a  distinct,  even  though  a  humble,  service.  At 
Mogliano,  Veneto,  not  far  from  Venice,  was  then 
located  the  Headquarters  of  the  famous  Third 
Army.  Under  the  command  of  the  far-famed  Duca 
d'Aosta,  this  army  had  accomplished  a  prodigious 
feat  in  checking  the  Austrian  advance  in  the  fall  of 

[315] 


316  THE    SOUL   OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


1917,  and  had  thereby  saved  Italy  from  further  in- 
vasion and  ravage.  As  it  was  only  about  two 
months  since  the  terrible  defeat  of  "Caporetto"  had 
taken  place,  the  lines  of  the  Italian  forces  were  just 
beginning  to  take  definite  shape.  Under  the  newly 
appointed  Commander  in  Chief,  General  Diaz,  a  gen- 
eral work  of  reconstruction  was  going  on.  As  the 
Third  Army  had  suffered  most  severely  in  the  recent 
retreat,  we  decided  to  begin  our  work  with  it  and  to 
do  what  we  could  to  help  the  authorities  build  up  the 
"morale"  of  the  men.  We  therefore  located  our  first 
headquarters  near  the  command  of  the  Third  Army 
at  Mogliano. 

It  was  my  privilege,  in  an  entirely  unforeseen  way, 
to  raise  the  first  Stars  and  Stripes  which,  to  my 
knowledge,  ever  flew  near  the  lines  of  the  Italian 
army.  We  had  been  at  the  front  about  a  week,  when 
we  realized  the  need  of  having  our  national  colors 
flying  above  our  headquarters.  The  only  persons 
representing  the  United  States  who  had  up  to  this 
time  made  their  way  to  the  Italian  front  were  a  small 
group  of  ambulance  drivers,  who  had  taken  the 
famous  Poets'  Ambulances  to  the  relief  of  the  Italian 
forces.  We  inquired  of  them  about  a  flag,  but  they 
did  not  have  one  themselves,  so  could  not  supply  us 
with  one.  We  made  inquiries  at  several  places,  wt 
sent  to  Venice,  to  Padua,  to  Milan,  but  fi*om  every- 
where came  the  answer  that  no  Stars  and  Stripes 
were  to  be  found.   It  would  take  three  or  four  weeks. 


MY  FINAL  CHOICE 


317 


we  were  told,  to  have  one  made.  Finally  one  day  I 
made  it  known  to  my  fellow-workers  that  since 
leaving  the  United  States  I  had  carried,  carefully 
folded  against  my  heart,  a  small  silk  flag,  about 
eighteen  by  twenty-four  inches  in  size.  We  decided 
that  since  we  could  not  get  any  other  for  the  present 
we  would  raise  this  one;  and  we  did.  We  had  our 
little  ceremony  and  it  was  my  privilege  to  put  it  out 
upon  our  balcony,  where  it  remained  until  we  had 
displaced  it  with  a  larger  one.  Later  I  carried  that 
little  flag,  attached  to  my  car,  to  the  remotest  spots 
on  the  firing  lines  and  even  down  into  Sicily,  in  places 
where  it  had  never  been  seen  before,  I  was  told,  and 
may  never  be  seen  again.  Wherever  it  went  it  car- 
ried new  hope  and  inspiration.  And  so  it  happened 
that  it  was  given  to  an  adopted  American  to  unfurl 
the  first  American  colors  on  the  lines  of  his  own 
native  country  during  the  Great  War. 

It  was  given  to  me  to  perform  a  still  greater  duty ; 
that  of  carrying  to  the  discouraged  soldiers  of  my 
native  country,  and  later  to  the  people  in  the  re- 
motest spots  of  the  interior  the  message  of  hope  and 
encouragement  from  far-off  America.  This,  too,  was 
purely  an  accident.  On  the  first  Sunday  we  were 
at  the  front,  a  new  Italian  Casa  del  Soldato,  or 
soldier's  hut,  was  to  be  opened.  The  famous  priest 
and  patriot.  Padre  Semeria,  was  to  deliver  the  ad- 
dress. On  the  preceding  Friday  it  was  announced 
that  on  account  of  illness  Padre  Semeria  could  not 


318  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 

be  present.  Doctor  NoUen,  our  chief  for  the  whole 
of  Italy,  happened  to  be  at  the  front  when  the  news 
reached  us,  and  he  casually  suggested  to  the  chap- 
lain who  was  in  charge  of  the  opening,  that  he  should 
ask  me  to  make  a  few  remarks  about  America's 
participation  in  the  war.  So  I  was  requested  to 
speak  at  the  opening  of  this  first  Casa  del  Soldato 
in  the  newly  formed  lines.  I  hesitated  at  first,  chiefly 
because  my  practice  in  Italian  public  speaking  had 
been  somewhat  limited,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  mar 
the  coming  festivities  by  making  a  bad  impression 
or  by  failing  to  interpret  in  adequate  terms  the  ideals 
and  the  aims  of  America's  participation  in  the  war. 
However,  the  request  was  so  urgent  that  it  seemed 
my  duty  to  do  the  best  I  could. 

The  Casa  to  be  opened  was  located  close  to  the 
lines.  These  particular  regiments  of  "Bersaglieri," 
for  whom  the  Casa  was  being  opened,  were  under 
the  command  of  Colonel  de  Ambrosi,  one  of  the 
bravest  and  most  quick-witted  men  of  the  entire 
Itahan  army.  They  had  carried  out  their  ideal- 
ism to  such  a  degree  in  beautifying  an  old  house 
that  they  had  made  it  into  one  of  the  most  at- 
tractive spots  imaginable.  Around  the  grounds 
were  flower  beds  representing  the  various  phases  of 
Italy's  participation  in  the  war.  They  had  suc- 
ceeded most  remarkably  in  turning  an  old  and  di- 
lapidated house  into  an  architectural  and  landscape 
gem.    In  front  of  the  house  and  camouflaged  with 


MY  FINAL  CHOICE 


319 


leaves  they  had  erected  a  platform  which  was  to 
serve  as  a  rostrum  in  the  coming  festivities.  The 
time  for  the  opening  came.    The  air  was  serene  and 
balmy,  the  first  signs  of  spring  were  beginning  to 
appear  and  the  "Bersaglieri,"  always  jovial,  seemed 
to  be  in  an  especially  good  humor.    The  Italian 
soldier  never  forgets  his  mirth  even  under  the  most 
untoward  circumstances.     They  had  gathered  in 
great  numbers  and  were  ready  for  the  celebration 
to  which  they  had  eagerly  looked  forward.  Our 
group  of  five  American  uniformed  Y.  M.  C.  A.  men 
arrived,  and  it  would  seem  extravagant  were  I  to 
tell  of  the  wild  enthusiasm  that  burst  from  that 
group  of  four  or  five  thousand  men.    I  was  escorted 
to  the  platfonn,  where  General  Croce  was  awaiting 
us.    When  the  time  came,  I  arose  to  speak.  Here 
was  I,  a  son  of  Italy,  for  many  years  in  far-away 
America,  now  come  back  to  my  native  country  to 
bring  words  of  encouragement  and  cheer;  and  here 
I  stood  before  them,  the  first  man  they  had  seen  in 
an  American  uniform,  and  speaking  the  first  words 
they  had  heard  of  America's  entrance  and  participa- 
tion in  the  war.    I  spoke  for  about  fifteen  minutes; 
in  simple  language  I  enumerated  the  reasons  why 
America  had  not  entered  the  war  before,  and  why 
she  had  entered  on  the  side  of  the  Allies  now ;  I 
spoke  of  her  unbounded  resources  in  men  and  means ; 
I  told  them  how  American  soldiers  had  already 
landed  on  European  soil  and  that  some  of  them 


320  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


would  surely  be  sent  to  Italy.  When  I  was  through, 
wave  after  wave  of  uncontrolled  enthusiasm  burst 
from  their  throats.  The  air  was  vibrant  with  cheer- 
ing. The  enemy,  not  far  distant,  must  surely  have 
heard  it. 

When  I  was  through  speaking,  General  Croce  met 
me,  and  in  keeping  with  the  Italian  custom  he  kissed 
me  on  both  cheeks,  in  token  of  deep  friendship  and 
appreciation.  To  me  it  seemed  rather  a  strange 
performance,  and  looking  round  to  my  mat^s,  stand- 
ing near  by,  I  smiled.  They  understood  my  em- 
barrassment. The  General  then  insisted  that  a  pic- 
ture be  taken  of  him  and  myself,  and  another  of  the 
entire  group  of  generals  and  other  officers  present, 
including  our  Y.  M.  C.  A.  men.  These  pictures  were 
sent  to  the  interior  and  published  widely  throughout 
Italj'.  Then  a  reception  was  tendered  in  the  Casa 
to  all  the  officers  present. 

So  far  as  I  was  concerned,  the  incident  was  ended. 
To  my  surprise,  however,  the  following  day  a  mes- 
senger arrived  from  Army  Headquarters  requesting 
me  to  present  myself  that  afternoon  for  a  confer- 
ence "regarding  an  important  matter"  with  General 
Giuseppe  Vaccari,  chief  of  staff  under  the  Duca 
d'Aosta.  I  went  to  the  beautiful  villa  in  which  the 
command  was  housed  and  was  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  the  General.  General  Vaccari  is  a  man 
of  unusual  dignity  and  poise,  yet  withal  one  of  the 
most  kindly  men,  as  I  came  to  know  afterwards.  As 


MY  FINAL  CHOICE 


321 


I  came  into  his  presence,  every  bone  and  fiber  of 
me  stood  erect.  I  did  not  know  or  even  suspect  what 
I  was  wanted  for.  After  exchanging  the  usual  greet- 
ings, he  spoke  of  the  reasons  why  he  had  called  me 
to  him.  He  said:  "His  Excellency,  the  Duca 
d'Aosta,  has  requested  me  to  thank  you  most 
heartily  for  the  service  you  rendered  us  yesterday 
at  the  opening  of  the  Casa.  We  heard  of  the  speech 
you  made  and  of  the  enthusiasm  and  encouragement 
which  it  evoked  in  our  soldiery.  He  further  in- 
structs me  to  state  that  he  would  like  to  have  you, 
at  the  expense  of  the  Italian  Army,  to  continue  to 
render  such  a  service,  by  going  from  place  to  place  as 
may  be  directed  later,  addressing  the  soldiers  along 
the  lines."  I  answered  that  it  was  my  duty  and 
privilege  to  render  any  little  service  I  could,  and 
that,  subject  to  the  approval  of  my  superiors,  I 
should  be  happy  to  place  myself  at  the  Comman- 
dant's disposal  and  to  do  what  I  could  in  the  name 
of  my  country,  to  serve  the  Italian  soldier.  With 
that  we  parted. 

From  that  day  until  I  left  Italy,  seven  months 
later,  when  I  came  to  America  to  bring  a  message 
from  Italy,  I  was  in  the  midst  of  incessant  activity. 
Repeatedly  I  was  called,  early  in  the  morning  or 
late  in  the  evening,  to  mount  a  car  waiting  at  the 
door  and  go  to  some  spot  on  the  lines  to  speak  in 
the  name  of  my  adopted  country.  On  one  occasion 
it  was  my  privilege  to  speak  to  twelve  battalions  of 


322  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


"Ciclisti," — the  famous  bicyclist  sharpshooters ;  on 
another  to  nine  battalions  of  the  equally  famous 
"Mctraglieri  di  Sardinia";  one  evening,  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting,  I  faced  a  large  body  of  men  under 
the  command  of  General  Angelosanto,  a  daring  \co- 
politan  soldier,  and  as  soon  as  the  address  was  over, 
they  marched  into  the  lines,  not  far  away.  On  still 
another  occasion  on  a  hillside,  on  whose  crest  the 
enemy  was  deeply  entrenched,  I  addressed  five  thou- 
sand men,  who  at  the  close  of  the  meeting  marched 
to  their  places  in  the  trenches  on  the  hill.  And  so  the 
days  passed,  days  of  continuous  activity,  through 
which  I  was  serving  my  native  country  in  the  name  of 
my  adopted  country.  Later  at  the  instance  of  the 
military  authorities  and  of  the  United  States  Com- 
mittee on  Public  Information  in  Italy,  I  made  a 
complete  speaking  tour  of  Sicily,  reaching  even  the 
remotest  hill  towns  inland.  Sicily  was  at  that  time 
in  a  very  low  state  of  "morale,"  yet  it  rose  to  the 
occasion,  and  the  unbounded  enthusiasm  of  the 
people  was  manifested  by  the  thronged  theaters  and 
other  public  buildings,  and  in  the  surging  crowds 
that  gathered  in  the  open  squares  to  hear  of 
America.  I  carried  with  me  small  ribbon  American 
flags,  and  distributed  them  by  the  thousands,  espe- 
cially to  children  who  had  relatives  in  the  American 
Expeditionary  Forces. 

Those  were  the  months  of  throbbing  activity  and 
of  unequalled  opportunity  to  observe  the  people 


MY  FINAL  CHOICE 


323 


and  the  life  of  my  native  Italy.  I  had  occasion  to 
confer  personally  with  scores  of  the  higliest  officers 
of  the  army,  from  the  Duca  d'Aosta  to  the  Generals 
in  command  of  the  various  armies  and  army  corps, 
and  with  minor  officers  ;  I  came  into  personal  contact 
with  many  civilian  officers  and  with  leaders  in  the 
educational  world  of  Italy.  I  had  the  privilege  of  es- 
corting some  leading  American  citizens  and  promi- 
nent men  of  other  nationalities  to  the  front  lines,  to 
interpret  in  some  important  conferences,  and  to 
carry  between  certain  Italian  and  American  authori- 
ties military  information  of  the  greatest  importance. 
Above  all,  I  had  an  unexcelled  opportunity  to  ob- 
serve the  life  and  the  institutions  of  my  mother 
country  with  the  eyes  of  manhood  and  in  a  way  I 
never  had  before.  I  was  given  access  to  some  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  cultured  homes  of  Italy.  I 
had  the  privilege  of  viewing  the  matchless  natural 
beauties  of  Italy  and  of  drinking  in  the  invigorating 
sweetness  of  Italy's  skies,  rivers,  lakes  and  seas. 
Opportunities  were  open  for  me  to  enter  public  life 
in  my  native  country  and  to  contribute  to  it  what  I 
had  gained  of  experience  and  outlook  in  my  adopted 
country.  At  times  I  almost  entertained  the  thought 
of  remaining  in  my  native  country.  But  something 
not  entirely  in  the  realm  of  reason  or  in  that  of 
patriotic  sentiment  kept  tugging  at  my  heart,  pull- 
ing like  a  magnet  toward  America. 

One  day  the  final  choice  took  place.    It  came  in 


324  THE    SOUL    OF    AN  IMMIGRANT 


the  midst  of  the  splendor  of  a  military  occasion  and 
unseen  by  human  eyes.  I  myself  did  not  realize  its 
fullest  significance  at  the  time.  At  Messina,  where 
I  was  to  address  a  regiment  of  1918  recruits,  I  was 
met  by  the  venerable  General  Lang,  who  took  me 
to  the  summit  of  the  liill  overlooking  the  Straits  of 
Messina.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  turning  to- 
ward sunset,  as  we  reached  our  destination.  On  the 
very  summit  of  the  hill,  lined  up  in  military  array 
in  the  form  of  an  open  square,  some  five  thousand 
young  soldiers  were  awaiting  our  arrival.  Sighting 
our  car,  officers  and  men  came  to  attention,  while 
the  band  wafted  out  on  the  breeze  the  martial  strains 
of  "L  'Inno  Nazionale,"  the  Italian  National  Hymn. 
We  exchanged  the  usual  military  salutes  and  then 
in  a  few  simple  words  I  spoke. 

While  speaking,  my  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
matchless  sight  before  me.  In  the  distance  beyond 
the  strait  was  Scilla ;  there  too  was  my  native  coun- 
try, Italy.  Below,  slumbering  peacefully  in  the 
sunset  glow,  was  Messina,  with  her  mole-arm  stretch- 
ing out  into  the  sea.  The  crystal  blue  of  the  Medi- 
terranean was  vying  with  the  delicate  tints,  now 
rosy,  now  purple,  of  the  western  sky.  Subcon- 
sciously I  was  thinking  of  the  Italy  of  the  Ancients 
and  of  the  Italy  I  had  known.  Before  my  eyes  the 
two  national  standards,  each  exemplifying  so  much, 
were  waving  triumphantly  in  the  stiff  breeze  sweep- 
ing over  the  mountain  crest.    One  stood  for  Italy, 


MY  FINAL  CHOICE 


325 


both  ancient  and  modern,  which  the  world  respects ; 
for  the  Italy  of  my  childhood,  for  all  the  memories 
of  my  youth,  of  loved  ones,  for  all  that  had  been 
beautiful  and  lovely  in  my  boyhood;  for  the  tender 
memox'ies  of  loved  ones,  living  and  dead.  The  other 
stood  for  all  the  suffering  of  the  years,  for  the 
awakening  of  manhood,  for  the  birth  of  freedom, 
for  the  unfolding  of  life.  I  loved  not  one  the  less, 
but  the  other  more! 

The  address  over,  we  exchanged  greetings  with 
the  officers  in  charge  of  the  occasion  and  returned 
to  our  car.  Then  followed  a  scene  which  will  for- 
ever remain  indelibly  imprinted  upon  my  memory 
and  consciousness.  The  soldiers,  even  before  being 
ordered  to  do  so,  spontaneously  broke  ranks  and 
made  a  mad  dash  toward  the  road,  where  our  car 
was  waiting.  Wave  upon  wave  of  "Evviva  I'America" 
swelled.  They  massed  themselves  along  both  sides  of 
the  road,  as  our  car  began  to  move  slowly  down  the 
serpentine  way.  The  standards  were  still  waving  tri- 
umphantly. The  band  was  now  playing  "The 
Star  Spangled  Banner."  We  moved  on.  The  sun 
was  just  going  down  into  the  sea.  The  waves  of 
cheers  followed  us,  growing  fainter  and  fainter  like 
an  echo.  We  gradually  lost  sight  of  the  soldiers, 
their  uniforms  blending  with  the  earth.  But  still 
we  could  see  a  mass  of  white  in  the  distance ;  the  boys 
with  their  handkei'chiefs  were  waving  the  last  pos- 


326  THE    SOUL    OF   AN  IMMIGRANT 


sible  farewell,  the  last  "ewiva"  to  America.  All  was 
now  silent,  save  for  the  thud-thud  of  the  engine  as 
our  car  moved  slowly  down  the  hill.  General  Lang 
and  I  uttered  not  a  word.  Finally  he  broke  the 
silence.  His  eyes  were  dim.  "Memorabile !"  he  said 
as  he  looked  back.  Just  then  the  sun  sent  forth  its 
last  ray.  Looking  back,  the  only  thing  I  could  see 
was  the  Stars  and  Stripes  waving  gloriously  in  the 
last  radiant  beam  of  light.  I  looked  toward  the 
west  and  in  my  soul  I  said,  "Through  the  Western 
window  comes  the  light."  I  knew  where  my  heart 
lay. 

An  hour  later  I  was  on  a  northbound  train  and 
two  weeks  after  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  America. 
I  called  upon  several  of  the  ci\dhan  and  military 
authorities  to  pay  my  respects,  chief  among  whom 
was  the  Duca  d'Aosta.  He  spoke  deep  and  appre- 
ciative words  of  what  America  had  done  for  Italy 
during  her  most  trying  hours,  and  requested  me  to 
repeat  in  America  his  appreciation  whenever  I  had 
opportunity.  At  last  I  was  on  my  way  toward  my 
adopted  country.  I  was  conscious  that  something 
vital  had  taken  place  in  my  life.  The  final  and 
lasting  clwice  had  come  and  I  knew  it.  Through 
my  mind  kept  running  the  lines  of  Dr.  Van  Dyke, 
"It's  home  again,  home  again,  America  for  me!" 
Years  before,  by  a  series  of  strange  circumstances,  I 
had  been  tossed  upon  the  shores  of  America.    Now  I 


MY  FINAL  CHOICE 


32T 


turned  my  steps  by  definite  choice  toward  that 
covnitry  of  which  sages  dreamed :  AMERICA. 

On  September  28,  1918,  sixteen  years  ahnost 
to  a  day,  from  the  time  when  I  first  set  foot  on 
American  soil,  the  U.  S.  Transport  Kroonland  an- 
chored in  New  York  harbor.  As  on  the  day  when 
I  had  first  sighted  America,  so  now  She,  the  Queen 
of  the  West,  was  again  decked  in  festal  array.  It 
was  the  morning  when  the  Victory  Loan  campaign 
was  launched.  The  forts  thundered  their  salutes. 
New  York,  the  great  city  of  the  Western  Hemi- 
sphere, was  resplendent  in  one  glorious  canopy  of 
matchless  colors.  I  was  again  in  America.  I  felt 
like  kissing  the  ground,  as  Columbus  had  done  cen- 
turies ago. 

And  yet  a  feeling  of  loneliness  again  came  over 
me.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  felt  as  of  old  that  I 
was  alone.  Had  it  not  been  for  my  American  "Big 
Brother,"  whose  voice  over  the  telephone  dispelled 
some  of  that  feeling,  I  might  have  felt  like  a  man 
without  a  country.  Nor  was  this  feeling  without 
foundation,  in  a  measure. 

Soon  after  my  return  I  was  asked  to  take  up  work 
in  the  Middle  West.  A  letter  was  shown  from  the 
man  to  whom  I  had  been  asked  to  report,  saying  he 
did  not  see  how  he  could  use  a  "foreigner"  with  such 
an  "outlandish  name."  On  my  way  West,  a  group 
of  young  men  passed  through  the  coach  and  taking 


328  THE    SOUL    OF    AX    I  M  :\r  T  G  R  A  N  T 


me  for  a  Jew  began  to  shout :  '"Sheeny,  Sheeny, 
how  is  heczness  on  Salcin  Street  Of  course  within 
me  I  lauglied  heartily.  And  yet  such  incidents  give 
one  a  feehng  that  no  matter  how  much  he  is  at  heart 
an  American,  he  is  still  (Tifferent  and  will  forever 
remain  so. 

I  have  now  been  in  Amenca  for  nineteen  years ;  I 
have  grown  up  here  as  much  as  any  man  can ;  I  have 
had  my  education  here;  I  have  become  a  citizen;  I 
have  given  all  I  had  of  youthful  zeal  and  energy 
in  serving  my  adopted  country;  I  have  come  to 
love  America  as  I  do  my  very  life — perhaps  more 
— and  3'et  they  still  call  me  a  "foreigner."  Not  that 
I  mind  it.  No,  no !  For  I  believe  that  with  a  real 
American  a  man  is  a  man  "though  he  comes  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth."  I  do  mind  it  though  for  the 
numberless  men  and  women  who  do  not  know  how  to 
take  it  philosophically  and  humorously  as  I  do,  and 
who  pass  through  life  in  this  country  under  that 
ugly  shadow,  ever  hanging  over  their  heads,  of  being 
despised  "foreigners"  all  their  days. 

As  for  me  I  care  not !  Though  my  features  may 
always  show  something  of  my  origin,  of  which  I 
am  far  from  being  ashamed;  though  at  times  my 
speech  ma}'  betray  my  foreign  birth;  though  I 
should  suffer  unendingly;  though  Thy  sons  should 
ever  dub  me  a  "foreigner,"  still  I  love  Thee,  America. 
I  am  not  blind  to  Thy  failings,  but  Thy  virtue  and 
Thy  glory  far  outshine  them.    Wliatever  betide,  I 


MY  FINAL  CHOICE 


329 


am  Thine  and  I  claim  Thee  as  mine  own.  In  my 
veins  runs  blood,  in  my  mind  run  thouf^hts,  in  my 
soul  feelings  and  aspirations  which  Thou  hast  given 
me.  Thy  name  is  graven  on  my  soul.  I  love  Thee, 
Italy,  my  native  land,  with  that  mystic  love  with 
which  men  turn  to  their  native  country  and  as  Pil- 
grims to  their  shrine.  I  love  Thee,  America,  with 
manhood's  strong  love,  born  out  of  the  unfolding  of 
the  mind,  the  evolving  of  the  soul,  the  sufferings  and 
joys,  the  toil  and  the  larger  loves  of  the  years.  I 
love  Thy  very  life.  I  love  Thee  as  I  can  love  no  other 
land.  No  other  skies  are  so  fair  as  Thine;  no  rugged 
mountains  or  fruitful  plains  so  majestic  and  divine. 
I  am  of  Thee ;  Thou  art  mine ;  upon  Thy  sacred  soil 
shall  I  live;  there  I  fain  would  die, — cm  American, 


